


HASA Birthday Cards 2004

by HASA_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Multi-Age, Other - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-14
Updated: 2004-02-15
Packaged: 2018-03-22 21:31:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 35,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3744289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HASA_Archivist/pseuds/HASA_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For each month, members whose birthdays fall in that month will specify a prompt/theme/question/idea that they would like to see drabbled in the <a href="http://www.henneth-annun.net/members/welcome.cfm">"HASA Birthday Cards Forum"</a>. Other members (anyone interested in any of the themes) will then try to write a drabble on those themes. Completed drabbles get uploaded here under the name of the member whose 'birthday card' it is. This story has all 2004 birthday drabbles.</p><p>Brought to you by your resident Challenge Managers, because you can never have too many fangy pets. Happy birthdays, my preciousesss...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. January 2004

  
Altariel: I would like to see pieces in which Denethor and Faramir exhibit a functional father-son relationship. Faramir does not need to be a child still.

 

**Patrimony** —by Dwimordene

All Gondor lies before him, black and red, smelling of yellowed age.

"Tell me all of them!" the boy demands, imperiously. Behind him, his father laughs, and ink-stained fingers trace the line:

Cair Andros. Henneth Annûn. Osgiliath. Minas Tirith. Pelargir. Dol Amroth. Anduin that runs throughout, past Tol Brandir to the sea.

"And that one?" the boy asks, pointing to the tower in the mountains. Silence, ere his father answers:

"The enemy took it long ago."

"I shall get it back!" Faramir declares.

The arms about him tighten, draw him back into a proud embrace. "One day, Faramir. One day...."

 

**Fealty and Service** —by Marta

"Here do I swear fealty and service …"

The words flow from his lips with a certainty I have scarce heard from him. Surely he is his brother's brother. But more than that he is his father's son.

Faramir. Sufficient jewel I named you, but you have proved me wrong. Much more than sufficient.

Old hand covers new as I lay my palm on the hilt of your sword. Our eyes catch, and we both see each other as never before. Kindred flesh, men of Gondor. The bond we share is now cemented by oath.

My son.

"And this do I hear…"

 

**A Valediction** —by Alawa

The horn’s call faded and Faramir watched the Steward’s fingers tighten on the stone. "Do not regret you choice," he searched for comfort as they walked towards the Tower, "his strength has always been our hope."

The hall offered sanctuary from the pitiless glare outside. Denethor poured the wine, cool and fragrant, and turned towards his son. "So, it seems we must seek to fill your brother’s place as best we can," he said, and Faramir felt cheered by his father’s ghost of a smile.

Their cups chimed fleetingly together. "To Boromir!" their voices joined in the ritual of farewell.

 

**Tidings of Death** —by Avon

It was just after the fifth hour that you suddenly stopped and turned pale. The goblet in your hand slithered to the floor in a pool of spilling red.

“Faramir?” I asked

You scarcely breathed but in a thread of voice said, “Boromir… I hear his horn. He is calling, Father.”

I stepped to where you stared unseeingly out a window and watched you anxiously.

Suddenly your head went down.

“It blows no more, Father.” You turned and looked at me, eyes blind. “He is gone.”

Tremors shook you and I reached for you and held you… my only son.

 

**Investment** —Starlight

The man flattens his palms on the table, looks at them briefly then back at the chessboard, studying the perfect, almost artistic arrangement of the few remaining pieces: Black corners his White.

His gaze shifts to the man opposite him whose palms are also flattened upon the table, eyes deep and dark as his own, and he smiles, faintly. ‘You have improved, Faramir,’ he says.

‘We- I’ve not played in ages.’

‘You play this game every day of your life.’ The smile broadens. How could I ever regret all those hours I spent teaching you? ‘Well done, son. Well done.’

***

The inspiration for this drabble came from Altariel's 'The King is Dead,' one of my favorites from her works. I've re-written it several times, but I think this is the most functional of them all. I couldn't, however, bear to part with the title...

 

**Reach** —Wild Iris

Hastening to the armsmaster for a report on my second-born son, I caught sight of the boy himself on the wall above. "Faramir! What are you doing?" Spitting over the parapet, I could see, as every yokel in the city had done before him.

He stepped back. "Bor'mir said I could not hit the enemy from here." I waited. He lifted his eyes. "I thought I could."

Those grief-grey eyes, the straight set of the jaw — like his mother… like his brother.

"You need a weapon with a longer reach," I said.

I glanced below. Yes, the armsmaster still waited.

Jay of Lasgalen: My first love is the twins, and I write about them more than any other character.

 

**A decision** —by paranoidangel

The decision is made.

Although father cautions us to be careful and tells us it will not bring back that which was lost, nor restore our broken family, I can tell he would do the same in our place.

Arwen cries, for she does not wish us to leave. But home will never be the same again and there seems little point in staying. There is nothing for us here any more.

The decision is made and we will ride out tomorrow. We will not rest until we kill all orcs so no others will suffer what our mother did.

 

**Beyond Death** —by Elvenesse

We stand with you cradled in our arms and you laugh up at us. Mother and Father named you well. Little sister, the stars shine in your name.

***  
We could not prevent your father’s death, but you we will protect. Darkness will not be your end.

***  
Forever is too long a time for mortals to comprehend. You have both passed beyond the boundaries of Arda and there is no longer anything left for us here. We go now to join our parents, to wait for the ages to pass and for forever to come.

Eru willing, we will meet again.

 

**Stars for Elendil** —by Avon

They say we must choose when our father leaves… choose to stay and die a mortal death or sail to those who love us and who wait… choose to be mortal or Elf, we who have never been either.

Father does not ask - why ask for knowledge that will tear him between us and Mother - and we do not tell.

We made our choice when we rode into battle on the Pelennor - rode with a star for Elendil bound to our brows, rode to save the world of Men, rode with our brother, Estel… hope of mortals.

 

Imhiriel: I would like to see some interaction between Elrond and Gilraen.

 

**Sons** —paranoidangel

Elrond found Gilraen in the garden doing nothing. He sat beside her and waited for her to speak.

"I got used to having him at home," she said, "but now..." she trailed off.

"Do not worry, Elladan and Elrohir will protect him."

"The last time Arathorn went out with your sons he didn't come back."

There was silence.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to imply they were responsible."

Elrond turned to look her in the eyes. "I cannot promise you your son will return and I cannot promise mine will either. We share the same fears."

Gilraen smiled in understanding.

 

**Leavetaking** —Forodwaith

Gilraen and her escort mount and prepare to depart. Dawn is near, but the grey mist of morning hides it.

The Master of the House has come to see them off, and she gives him her hand in farewell. "My thanks are little enough return for years of shelter, yet I offer them nonetheless."

"They are more than sufficient, Gilraen. But will you not remain?"

"There is no longer any victory it is possible for us to share, Master Elrond. In the end, one of us will lose a child. I will not stay to see who it must be."

 

**Inheritance** —Starlight

The lady’s countenance is grave. Mayhap she guesses the reason of my summons?

‘Gilraen-’

‘Before you begin, my lord, I will ask if you’ve seen him.’

‘I have. He’s become all I had hoped he’d be.’

She nods, her gesture revealing lines of care I hadn’t noticed. I reach for her hand. ‘He is ready.’

Gilraen winces; her hand tightly clasps mine.

‘It’s time, for him and for us.’

‘Is he, then, to become his father’s son,’ she gives me a fleeting smile, ‘to be Estel no more?’

‘Nay, my lady. He will be Estel still- now more than ever.’


	2. February 2004

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For each month, members whose birthdays fall in that month will specify a prompt/theme/question/idea that they would like to see drabbled in the ["HASA Birthday Cards Forum"](http://www.henneth-annun.net/members/welcome.cfm). Other members (anyone interested in any of the themes) will then try to write a drabble on those themes. Completed drabbles get uploaded here under the name of the member whose 'birthday card' it is. This story has all 2004 birthday drabbles.

  
Loquacious: A story set in Arnor, when it still has a king.

 

**Arnor Ascendant** —by Dwimordene

The crowning is done. A sunset king for the sunset towers, the last of his line: Valandil, son of Isildur, King of Arnor, and High King of the Dúnedain. Annúminas is thronged with folk come to celebrate the day, and the streets are loud with joy.

And the king himself? "He looks well," says one man, the belt of his knighthood stark against dark livery.

"Very like his father," says another, alike attired, and raises his glass. "The king is dead."

"Long live the king." Ohtar and Estelmo, smiling, drain their cups, content that their service was not in vain.

**High King and Halfling** —Marta

Argeleb settled into his throne and glared at his advisor. Why today, of all days...

"We found a hilly region beyond the Baranduin, your majesty, and --"

Argeleb raised one hand for silence, massaging his temple with the other. He had wanted to dismiss the court, but Marcho was persistent. The king was none too pleased with the woolly-toed nuisance standing before him. Luckily, he knew the quickest way to gain some peace.

He sighed heavily. "Just speed my messengers, acknowledge my lordship, and this land is yours -- what did you call it again?"

Marcho smiled warmly at that. "The Shire."

Zimraphel: Númenor, any time in its history.

 

**Mentor** —by Nessime

Their faith and courage burned brightly in Arda’s darkest hour. Therefore the Valar gave them rich reward: wisdom, power, life enduring beyond mere mortals’ measure. 'Twas my task to mentor them.

Theirs was the Land of Gift - a haven safe from the evils of the Dark One - where they grew wise and fair. They had learnedtheir lessons well - or so I thought. But memories, like their lives, proved too short.

Now they harken to a new mentor - one who broke faith with me. And in my heart I know that once again they will learn their lessons well.

**Long Live The King** \- Jay of Lasgalen

Elros Tar-Minyatur is dying - Númenor mourns. Our first King, surely to be our greatest King, who wrought all around us. Unheralded, for no message was sent, sails are sighted from Lindon. Rumour abounds. A mighty Elven lord, say some. The herald of Gil-Galad, say others. 

No.

This is just a grieving brother, facing the final, bitter parting from his long-sundered twin. A brother - surely questioning the choices made so long ago. Words are unspoken; sorrow replaced by love and acceptance. The eyes of one grow dim, closing beneath the tender caress of the other. 

_The King is dead._

Lanthiriel S: The first official meeting, and subsequent relationship, of Eowyn and Queen Evenstar (especially after Eowyn witnesses that enthusiastic film kiss!).

 

**Shield and Standard** —by Dwimordene

Fear should have died before the Black Gate. And yet the field seems set again for the clash. And as before, there was little time to prepare, nor room to maneuver now. Things shall unfold as they will.

Shield and Standard, steel faces the star of kings: the one has delivered victory, the other, hope; the one sees him as in a mirror, the other knows the depths of him. Ah, they speak!

"I am glad you are come," both say at once, then laugh. And happily embrace.

And Aragorn breathes again, relieved. Hope has once more won the day.

 

**Raven and Gold** —by Marta

"May I introduce Eowyn, Lady of Rohan?"

Faramir's eyes twinkle with pride as we stand before the Queen. So this is the one who stole the new king's heart so many years ago? 'Tis hardly surprising. She is surpassing fair, Elven grace and Numenorean passion embodied.

Yet what does she see in me? Shield-maiden spurned? Nazgul-slayer? Oath-breaker? Last daughter of a cursed house, fit only for dogs and squalling children?

Faramir's hands shelter mine. What else might she see? Beloved of the Steward? Daughter of kings? Lady far from home facing a new world, for love?

"'Tis an honour, your majesty."

**Dandelion clocks** —Alawa

That Ithilien summer’s day had seemed endless, when, amidst a field of gold, Eowyn had shared with them her folklore. Laughing they had torn apart the sunny faces, petal by petal, to prove their husbands’ love, then chased their children through the puff-ball clouds stirred up by telling the hours.

Later, as evening fell, her needle had recalled the bright yellow circles transforming into gossamer globes; how each starry, grey-threaded seed reached beyond the rim waiting for the wind to carry it away.

This Arwen remembered dimly as through a veil she watched the hollow stem returning to the soil.

Nessime: How about the quiet heroes of the Shire Occupation - the ones who defied the ruffians openly or covertly?

 

**Fear! Fire! Foes!** —by Marta

Awake! Fear! Fire! Foes!

The call resounded across the Buckland, waking those who would hear. Danger -- it did not matter what sort -- had come.

Fatty collapsed against the door-bolster, heaving for breath. The mile-long sprint had been too much for him, the hobbit family thought. If they only knew.

If they knew what Fatty had seen, they would have froze where they stood. No bell would have rung.

Black horses. That cursed wind that stole his breath. Pillow-feathers flying, doors broken in, and the blood-curdling scream.

They little guessed the danger. Yet that brave, stuttering hobbit saved the Shire. Until tomorrow.  



	3. March 2004

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For each month, members whose birthdays fall in that month will specify a prompt/theme/question/idea that they would like to see drabbled in the ["HASA Birthday Cards Forum"](http://www.henneth-annun.net/members/welcome.cfm). Other members (anyone interested in any of the themes) will then try to write a drabble on those themes. Completed drabbles get uploaded here under the name of the member whose 'birthday card' it is. This story has all 2004 birthday drabbles.

  
Elena Tiriel: I was thinking along the lines of the thoughts of one of the people at the oath-taking ceremony on the Hill of Awe.

 

**Honor** —by Dwimordene

When Éorl and the Steward came down from that high hallow, those of the _Éothéod_ who had come to camp hard by, following their lord, rose. _Hwelc spell, hlaford?_ they cried. _Sprecath ús!_

And so Éorl led Cirion then before his people, and he spoke thus, in the Northern tongue: " _Éothéod_ , among you I am first in honor. But here is one better, Cirion Boromirsson, for he fears not to swear friendship before the gods themselves. Therefore in your name I have said: here stand I by Gondor forever. Shall I be foresworn?"

And with one voice they cried: _Næfre!_

****  
(A-S is somewhat forced, but: Hwelc spell, hlaford? ... Sprecath ús!=What news, lord? Speak to us! Næfre!=Never!)

 

**The Joining** —by Avon

I gave the spear to my lord and watched him plant it in this silent hallow; watched too as he offered his sword to the gods before paying an obsequy to the ancient grave. I listened little to his words though as he swore fealty and friendship on behalf of us, now and forever. I needed not – there was nothing else to say to those who gave us a world, a hope, a future. Instead, I watched these dark men who speak in tongues unheard and carry the light of the stars - and are now a part of us

 

 

Regina: I would like to see what Goldberry's thoughts were when she first saw Frodo; or what Merry, Pippin or Sam were thinking as they prepared to leave the Shire.

 

**Into the Old Forest** —by Avon

The way grows darker and dimmer. The trees drip damply on us and I shiver. Frodo asks,

“Are you cold?”

I shake my head fiercely – no!

I am – cold, damp and scared of these trees that breath malice – but no colder than he. I am not here to be looked after – to be the baby.

“Scared?”

I force a smile. “Of this overgrown firewood?”

It has taken every threat and promise I could command to convince Merry that I should come. Always I have trailed him, trying to catch up and I will be as old as them, I swear.

**Leave-taking** —Imhiriel

Staring at the almost empty sheet of paper in front of me, I wonder if I should speak to my parents personally.

Who knows how long it will take to accomplish this task – whatever it actually entails. Another question I couldn’t even answer for myself. How then should I speak of it to others? And should I add to their burden of not knowing of our whereabouts by telling them that this adventure will most likely be more dangerous than they could ever imagine? Is it better to say nothing at all?

Still doubting, I tear the letter to pieces.

Snitchnipper: I would love to see an exchange of any sort between Elboron and Eldarion, the Fathers of the 4th Age!

 

**A New Age** —by Tanaqui

I watch as Elboron kneels and places his hands between Father’s. He rises Prince of Ithilien, Steward of Gondor. How strange to see his fair crown, in place of raven locks, bent by Father’s.

They both seemed as men in their prime, until the Prince gave back the gift.

One day, my father, too, will give back the gift. I cannot imagine the world without him.

Time wears slow here, yet I see suddenly the passing of an age. It is we who will carry the world forward. I am glad Elboron and his sons will be at my side.

 

 

Sphinx: Anything about Aragorn and Arwen

**Sea Change** —Dwimordene

In the grey light, she stands straight and still on the rocks, the salt-breeze catching her hair. Her face is as a mirror—nothing of her in it, while below, the sea roars. Gulls wail as he asks gently, "Arwen?"

She turns; in a heartbeat he is beside her, called with a glance. "'Tis well, Estel, I am well," she murmurs. "I would but look, for the waters are silent without the Twilight."

Holding her tightly, Aragorn turns east towards the glitter. "Look, then," he says against her hair. "For you've gained the Dawn."

"I know," says she. And smiles.

**Fear and Hope** —paranoidangel

"Did your father speak with you?" he asked.

"Yes," she replied. "When we marry you will be King."

"It is better than we hoped," he said, taking her hands. "I feared he would not let you go."

"He would if I wished it." She knew if she pleaded with him she would be able to marry Aragorn sooner, but that she would not do, for he only wished to ensure it was truly what she wanted. "I fear," she continued, "that you will go and I will never see you again."

"Not when I have you to come back to."

**Entwining Fates** —Imhiriel

Fate assigned us different roads. You stride to your fate, even as I, having already embraced mine, sit weaving and watching. Waiting for the day when our paths will finally meet.

But who can say which course is the harder? To walk through peril and danger, with death as foe, an end of hope for Middle-earth? Or to welcome death with open arms, as hope for a new beginning?

I watch you from afar as your life thread unfolds, even as I weave these threads to a sign of hope. Linking the threads. Joining the roads. Uniting the sundered kindred.

Soulhunter: My favorite characters are Glorfindel and Gil-galad. What can you do with them?

 

**In The Balance...** —Dwimordene

The Dark Lord comes!

Serene amidst the havoc stands Gil-Galad, Aiglos, snow-point no longer, in hand. To the standard-bearers he says only: "Raise them high, that he may see." White Tree and White Stars fly together in hope. Narsil burns bright in Elendil's hand; eagerness is in the air, for the hour of truth is nigh.

But truth has another voice, and Glorfindel speaks to all and none, saying: "Rightly we stand against a Power of the World, yet it is not given to creatures that we should live who strike him down."

Silence. Until Gil-galad, calmly smiling, replies: "Násie."

*****  
("Násie"—Amen/So be it/That is so.)

**Shades of Gold** (double drabble)—Avon

I saw them - saw them as they stood in the late westering gold of the sun on the hills above Gorgoroth, the mighty captain and mightier king. One the Elf-lord returned from across the furthest seas, strong with power and all the grace the Valar can give, but yet bathed in joy; one the king who has stood staunch against Sauron’s temptation for mortals’ lifetimes untold. I saw them clasp hands as they parted, two golden shades - the bright bronzed gold of midsummer and the pale clear gold of dawn.

The next day’s forenoon I saw the golden ones again. I saw the one called Glorfindel walk through the darkness of the plains outside Mordor, hair braided back, face as dirty as any of ours, golden mantle stained and cut by blade. He walked as one who mourned and knew that there would be no end to his mourning. I saw him take the body of the slain king from the arms of his herald, cradle the palely shining king against his own golden breast and hold star-laid shield against him. I watched them as they left that place of foul darkness… two shades of gold once more.

 

 

Fordwaith: I would love to read drabbles about the relationship between Aragorn & Boromir.

 

**The Mortal Road** — by Avon

I watched you sleep in Lorien, - a fevered, restless sleep; hand clasping and unclasping sword-hilt, lips muttering broken, unheard words. I watched as you lay awake, darkness in your eyes. You carry your own peril into Lorien, but I sorrowed for your danger. You are of my own kind – _Mortal_ , weak and yet powerful. We are to whom the Ring sings its silent song.

_Power…. Knowledge…. Strength…._

I hear it too – its dark promises and shadowed call. I know its power. I guard myself, gird myself and fight my frailty - yet cannot save you.

I watch you fall.

**The Steward and the King** —Marta

Thorongil leaned back against the marble wall, his lips curling into a smile as the future steward played before him.

"Who are you fighting?" he asked, trying to hide his amusement.

The child looked over his shoulder, teetering to one side. The captain from the north reached out his hand, steadying the child.

"Orcs," Boromir answered. "Father says we must always be ready." The wooden sword jabbed the air; soon he was off again.

Thorongil brushed the tears from his eyes. That babes should know that truth… yet, here was valour in which he could trust Gondor.

Celandine Brandybuck: This year is my 33rd birthday, so I officially come of age in my Hobbit incarnation next week. I was thinking of requesting smut (and wouldn't turn it down ) but I think that something on coming of age would be nice.

**Hannon le** —Lady Aranel

Soft caresses rouse him from a dream. Moonlight streams through the window as he turns to welcome her trailing touch: across his stomach and down - her kisses follow. A sigh of encouragement escapes him.

Her mouth holds him captive. Arching his back, his hands clench the sheets. A sheen of sweat now bathes his skin. She drives him higher in need until a shattering of stars breaks over him in engulfing waves of pleasure. She smiles and slides to shelter against his side. He holds her in his arms gently.

"Hannon le, meleth nín," he whispers in her hair.


	4. April 2004

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For each month, members whose birthdays fall in that month will specify a prompt/theme/question/idea that they would like to see drabbled in the ["HASA Birthday Cards Forum"](http://www.henneth-annun.net/members/welcome.cfm). Other members (anyone interested in any of the themes) will then try to write a drabble on those themes. Completed drabbles get uploaded here under the name of the member whose 'birthday card' it is. This story has all 2004 birthday drabbles.

  
Ainaechoiriel: My Mortal Alter Ego's birthday is in April. A theme? Well, it would have to be something about Legolas. Well, my favorite quote of LOTR is when he is quoting the stones in Hollin. So maybe a drabble about all that, really getting into his head and heart?

 

**I Hear the Stones Lament** — by Avon

_I hear the stones lament them:  
deep they delved us; fair they wrought us; high they builded us; but they are gone._

My eyes see the holly’s thickly-clustered berries but my mind sees a tall city, streets thronged with hosts of fair Elven-folk. As I watch, I see it fall in flames and war and hear the clash of steel and a hundred voices crying out in loss,

_They are gone._

In the cold, thin winter sun, I shiver in pity and dread. Soon may travellers in all Middle-earth hear only this lament of trees and stones.

_They are gone…_

 

**Strange to Us** — by Elana

Voice of stone in my soul. They are gone. They are gone.

Gone across a sea I have never seen. How could they bear to leave, when the world is so fair? Leave new grass to sprout, new trees to spring from seed, grow to sapling and towering giant, never savoring their greenness? Leave their works of creation to fall into ruin? Leave, knowing even the bedrock will mourn them?

Old as I now realize I am, with these younglings for companions, still I am only beginning to learn to love this Middle-Earth. I do not ever want to leave.

 

**Strange Vessels** —by Elvenesse

From the rocks about me, pours almost overwhelming sorrow. Such a strange and grievous thing I deem it! The affinity of my people is with the living things that grow; yet the trees here are strangely silent and they will not answer me.

It is the stones themselves and the ground beneath them that speak to me. It is here that great power was wrought and wielded. From the earth were gathered metals and precious gems to form items of great beauty. Trees were hewn; fires built, and now only distant echoes remain of those who fell into unwitting folly.

 

**Longing** —by Dwimordene

In the line of walkers, Legolas trails last, listening. Holly-fenced Eregion is empty; the birds are silent; the holly stands mute, but the stones speak. They murmur in his dreams, filling them with strange desire. 

Who knew that stone might wish to grow? Poor tortured rock, that dreams of greatness and has it only through others' hands in the breaking and the working. And they cry out to him, grasping, hopeful: _Remake us! Are you not their kinsman?_ But he has no craft, and only news to give: 

_They are gone, they are gone. They sought the havens long ago._

 

Lotr lover: I'd love a drabble about Glorfindel, if anyone's up for it; action or humor or contemplation or het romance, but no slash, please.

 

**Mae Govannen** \-- by Azalais

" _Ai na vedui Dúnadan! Mae govannen!_ "

Relief overflows me, for in the gathering shadow he brings hope to my heart and strength to my arm. Elf-lord of a house of princes, Balrog-slayer, what terrors should the black Nine hold for him? As their icy darkness closes upon the Ringbearer his otherworldly light but glows the brighter.

Now Frodo is across the Ford, saved by Loudwater's rising, and those foul shadows would turn upon us - yet the white-hot flame of his fury sears them, and they scatter to terror and the flood. _Ai na vedui Glorfindel; mae govannen!_

("Elf-lord of a house of princes" is Gandalf's description of Glorfindel, from FoTR Book 2 Chapter 1, Many Meetings.

And yes, I like and tend to subscribe to the notion that the two Glorfindels are the same as well :) )

 

**Untitled** \-- by Wild Iris

The stranger pledges fealty to the heir of his king.

He is a puzzle to those that see him; his accent slants their words, and he is stern and golden like the sun. He has come as from long sleep, in the service of defiance so fierce it cannot spend itself in sleep. Yet he yields his sword gladly to his unproven lord. The watchers cannot know that having served mistaken pride makes it easy to embrace Elrond Peredhel.

A kiss, laid on his brow, seals it. The stranger receives back his sword and his name, antique devices once more acknowledged.

 

**The Prince of Golden Flowers** —Avon

It was here he fell - he of the golden hair and golden heart. He fell in flames and darkness against a being of ancient evil, fell to save those of us that fled. The eagles brought us back his body – burnt and bloody and broken. We laid it on the turf here and raised a mound over it. He was a prince of the house of the golden flowers – and the golden flowers came to be his shroud.

Here, here is one of his flowers. Tuck it into your hair, child, and remember the one who died for you.

 

**Hope** —Marta

Asfaloth plodded along the road, his gait lacking its usual vigour. His bells clang together, devoid of their normal music.

Still we search, but for what? What hope is there to find them in the wilderness, with the Nine abroad?

Hope. His mind lingered on that word. What hope did he claim, that he might find Hope? Estel was lost, and all Middle-earth's hope. He sank into his steed's back, and Asfaloth guessed his master's despair.

But Asfaloth smelled a familiar scent on the wind. His step quickened, his bells sang. "Glorfindel!" the elf heard, and his heart rejoiced. Estel.

 

fliewatuet: I'd really like a drabble about pre-Ring-War Aragorn. 

 

**Upon This Hither Shore** —by Dwimordene

They say water draws Elves. Mayhap also the elven-reared, for there he sits—the foundling washed up on mortal shores. 

The stone skips twice, then sinks. Halbarad tsks. "Throw a round?" he asks when the other turns. Aragorn considers, then nods. 

Upon the riverbank they stand, casting stones in silence awhile. "You're often here," Halbarad says. Aragorn shrugs.

"I was born between these rivers—" his last stone sinks "—but they speak nothing to me."

The final stone skips thrice. "Silly game," Halbarad complains. A beat, then: "Again, tomorrow?"

Reflections waver in the water. 

"Aye, tomorrow," Aragorn agrees. And then smiles.

 

**Another Name** — by Elana

There he is, I hear them whisper, thinking I cannot hear. _That Ranger. That Strider._

An apt enough description. Many long leagues these legs have traveled, many miles remain before I reach journey’s end. Very well then, Strider will I be, in this place.

The inn is warm, the beer excellent. But I sit alone. They watch me, eyes suspicious, voices wary.

Would they honor me, if they knew my heritage, if they realized that daily I risk death for their sakes? Would it matter?

_Telcontar_ will I surname my sons. That we may remember the purpose and the price.

 

**'Peering in the water as the dark eve fell, I caught him, Gollum.’** —Avon

Through darkness and mire I drive him; through forest and briar he drives me. He is my prisoner - or I am his…. I can not remember. Can not remember warmth, sufficient food, ease. Can not remember when I did not hold him, drive him, drag him. Always in my ears are his moans and snufflings. Always in my nose is his smell – reeking of dark things and dark places. Always in my eyes are his eyes: they watch me and hunger for my throat.

In the dark hours I watch what the ring has made him… and I fear.

 

**His Lady's Horse** —Marta

The dusk light had nearly faded to evening's grey, but no matter. A ranger's ears can hear a man approach. Eight hoofsteps.

"Halbarad."

He dismounted, leading the new horse toward me.

"All was well in Imladris?"

He smiled knowingly. "Aye, she lives."

I turned to face him. "I did not ask of Arwen --" But then I saw the horse. I knew that proud back, that hardy coat. A horse of the Valley.

Halbarad leaned close. "The lady is well, and wishes you the same."

'Twas good it was so dark. A ranger did not smile so foolishly at a horse.

 

**Heirlooms** —Gwynnyd

The ring was an unfamiliar heavy weight on my hand, pinning me to an unlooked for fate.

"He gave me Narsil, too."

Ellrohir laughed. "Narsil? What does father expect you to do with it?"

I grin. "Put fear into the hearts of my foes. Drawing it, I declare, ‘Here is the Sword That Is Still Broken.’ They’ll flee my wrath unfought. ‘Twould be a good stabbing sword, with such a jagged point."

"It was a hand-and-a-half! The hilt would unbalance such a short blade."

"But not unmasterable, I think."

"Estel, no!"

"I am Aragorn." I go to commission a sheath.

 

**Untitled** —Forodwaith

"Be welcome to Lorien, Heir of Isildur," Celeborn said, yet his cold stare belied the words. Galadriel said nothing, only met Aragorn's eyes, and he gasped like a man plunged into icy water. So you would ask my granddaughter to make Luthien's choice. And what if Arwen consented? Have you the courage to take her life?

He broke free from her gaze and looked down at his hands, relieved to see that they were not trembling. If it were her own free choice, he thought, yes. If she gave me her life, I would hold it close as my own.


	5. May 2004

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For each month, members whose birthdays fall in that month will specify a prompt/theme/question/idea that they would like to see drabbled in the ["HASA Birthday Cards Forum"](http://www.henneth-annun.net/members/welcome.cfm). Other members (anyone interested in any of the themes) will then try to write a drabble on those themes. Completed drabbles get uploaded here under the name of the member whose 'birthday card' it is. This story has all 2004 birthday drabbles.

Dwimordene:If anyone can find it in their heart to produce a drabble about Beregond or Bergil (or both), I'd be very happy.

**A Father’s Choice** \-- by Elana

“Please, Father, don’t make me leave with Mother and the girls. I’m old enough! I want to do my part.” His eyes plead.

Oh my son, you do not know what you ask. We who stay within these walls are doomed; we fight on for honor’s sake, not for hope of victory.

But innocence does not negate courage. Too young this hour has come upon you, yet you meet it valiantly. Your small flame longs to shine against the darkness.

How can I deny you, my son? Though the Shadow takes us both, still I will not quench your fire.

~*~  
 **New Home** \-- by Tanaqui

Beregond watched anxiously as Bergil looked around the courtyard at the new-built officers’ houses, while the sound of drill-practice drifted through the gateway.

“No market?” the boy asked dubiously.

“Not yet.”

“No school?” That sounded more hopeful.

Beregond laughed. “That has been started. There are several families here.”

A boy came out of one of the other houses. He and Bergil eyed each other, before Bergil crossed to speak with him. Soon, Bergil turned and waved to his father. “Falborn is going to show me a bird’s nest!”

Beregond smiled. _At last he has a chance to be a boy!_

**The White City** —Forodwaith

Child of the sea strand, Beregond had not seen the beauty of Minas Tirith's cold white stone until Aerlinnel's eyes reflected it back to him. "Teach Bergil to love my city," she asked on her deathbed, and he has tried.

Now, as Beregond looks at her son – his thin face so much like hers – he realizes he has succeeded all too well. Bergil will not leave the city, and with his mother dead there is no lever to persuade him.

"Then stay, and do what you can for her," he says at last, and hopes she will forgive his weakness.

**In the Hands of the King** —Gwynnyd

"Is it true, father?"

Weary, I grab his shoulder and carefully inspect him. His clothes are grimed and rent, but little more so than after a day in the fields. The bloodstains are old, dried. Tears have washed clean tracks, smeared again now with the back of his hand.

"They say you left your post and killed in the Hallows."

I cannot belittle his fears for they mirror my own. I draw him, unresisting, into my arms.

"I had to do what was right for Faramir. There is a king now and I can hope for mercy not only justice."

 

**Boys To Men** —ErinRua

We do not truly see when boys become men. It is not in the bones grown suddenly long, or the hands grown awkward with new-found strength.

"You cannot send me away, Father!" he cries. "The White City needs all of us, quick lads as well as strong men. Let me stand as you do, as Gondor needs us to!"

My son, my son. I see manhood first in his clear grey eyes, gazing fiercely up into my own. His shoulders are under my hands, the soft skin of his brow briefly under my lips.

"Aye, Bergil. Stand with me."

**The Steward's Standard** —Alawa

"But why is it white?" Young Bergil was eager to know and Beregond had tried to explain.

"Well, at night a captain flies the white flag to rally his men in battle, show them the way. For in the dark ‘tis all too easy to go astray."

But Bergil did not really understand. Not until later, in sunlit Emyn Arnen, as the banners unfurled above the Prince’s House for the first time. Then he sang his lord and lady home and cheered himself hoarse as the Captain of the White Company came marching past at the head of his men.

**Friendly Native Guide** —Isabeau of Greenlea

Children’s voices call out once again in Minas Tirith. Bergil’s friends have returned to the City, eager to hear his tales of the war. No reason to feel bereft, and yet…

Then, one morning, Pippin is there before him again, and not alone. All of the other Periannath are with him, including the Ringbearer.

"Ho, Bergil!" says Pippin. "Would you be our guide again today? For no one knows the City better than Bergil," he tells the Ringbearer. Beregond’s son lifts his chin proudly, as his friends look on in awed respect.

"I would be glad to," he says, grinning.

**So Other Men May Fight** —Marta

Bergil glared at me, a defiant look in his eyes. "I am not going."

"Please, son, listen to reason..."

"I will not be sent away. You have always called me your little man. And if I am not yet old enough to wield a sword, surely I can help some other way, so other men may fight?"

If we could muster half that defiance, perhaps Gondor would stand, if only on one leg.

"Besides, Gelmir is staying."

And he would not abandon his friends. I sighed.

"Very well; you may stay."

**Waiting** —Avon (double drabble)

Through cold lips, he smiled at his son as the guards watched them both.

“Come now, you are too old for tears. Your uncle Iorlas is a good man and will take care of you now.”

Beregond swallowed his own tears as he watched his son scrub his eyes. Such a thin sharp-boned face it was. His heart ached at the thought of leaving them both – this precious boy of his and the brother who, little more than a great lad himself, must now stand as father to him.

“The king awaits you.”

Beregond looked past the captain to where Iorlas waited, white-faced and grim; no trace now of the light-hearted soldier.

“Look after him for me, lad.”

He felt Bergil press shiveringly against him. Swiftly he clasped his shoulders and pressed a kiss to his forehead.

“Remember – we are soldiers of the third company. You must pay attention to your lessons and do your best to help your uncle and be as brave as you were during the war.”

As the captain put a hand on his shoulder and gruffly ordered him to come, Beregond pushed his son gently towards his brother.

“Do not let him watch, Iorlas.”

“Come.”

 

Eärmirë:I'd really like to read a drabble about women in the Silmarillion. As rulers, lovers, mothers, warriors, artists, wheeler-dealers - anything. Canon, semi-canon. or OFC.

Or a drabble about the Nirnaeth, if it could be.

**Day Shall Come Again** \-- Wild Iris

And there is no more battle, but where he stands; no more light but his helm in that river of dusk. He counts strokes: two score, three score. Each time his blade finds flesh, each moment of respite for those that flee, he cries aloud in the tongue of the Eldar: _Aurë entuluva!_

Three score and ten. There are too many hands on him, a terrible weight; and he falls, and the Orcs fall over him like night. And then he feels terror, for instead of a blow, ropes and shackles come. And he understands that his avowal is betrayed.  
  
 **Tol Morwen** —Wild Iris (half drabble)  
  
There is no afterward. Each twisting path led up this hill. Even the forest that clutched at me so long has laid down its arms.  
  
My body is of nothing above the earth. My womb is a grave sealed with a stone. That mute incomprehension in the dark, wherein is our beginning and our ending.  
  
 **Defiance** \-- by Tanaqui  
  
The Men of Dor-lómin hold the way, so that a new star may rise.   
  
He is the last. Never has axe been so wielded, yet the enemy is as numberless as the tears. He falls, crushed beneath the weight of hewed hands that still cling.  
  
His thoughts fly to wife and son and child-to-be. How will they fare? His wife will be a mother to their people; his son a warrior to make his forefathers proud.; the babe’s fate he knows not.   
  
Day _shall_ come again: from the House of Hador will spring the last hopes of Men and Elves.  
  
 **A Star is Born** —Tenshi Androgynous  
  
Were we all so perfect when we began? His fingers, his toes, his tiny features…perfect. Do all mothers think their babes so beautiful? I wonder, for the first time, is this how my mother looked upon me? I wish I could ask her.  
  
How then can it be that we change so much? How have we fallen so far? My perfect child, my star that rises from the line of Finwë and the House of Hador. A great fall is at hand, my son - will you one day be a falling star? Or will your perfect light shine forever?  
  
RiverOtter: I would like something dealing with Dol Amroth in the Fourth Age. Imrahil has four children so there is plenty to work with.  
  
 **Returning from a wedding** \-- by Tanaqui  
  
Father and sons sat silently as dusk fell. A few brief sentences had been enough to share the day’s news.  
  
The space around the chair seemed naked, stripped of its clutter of overflowing workboxes and abandoned books.  
  
The woman paused at the door, catching the sombre mood, but the boy ran ahead, intent on his goal of asking his uncles for help making a toy boat.  
  
As the child’s laughing questions restored the customary chatter, Imrahil stood and held out his arm to his daughter-in-law. He led her to the chair. “Why don’t you sit over here now, my dear.”  
  
 **For Everything, There Is A Season…** —Isabeau of Greenlea  
  
After the coronation and the celebration, time for a quiet family dinner and evening together. In the library, the Prince looks over his correspondence. Erchirion reads a book, while Elphir and Amrothos play a cutthroat game of chess. The Princesses Mariel and Lothiriel ply their needles together upon new clothes for Alphros, who is growing again.  
  
"There’s no reason to put it off any longer," Lothiriel says suddenly, breaking the quiet. "We really need to find the two of you wives."  
  
Aghast, Erchirion and Amrothos look pleadingly to their father for assistance, while Elphir, safely wed and heired, laughs merrily.  
  
 **Just A Bit Of Chop.....** —Isabeau of Greenlea  
  
"Waves? No, these aren’t truly waves. Just a bit of chop," the first brother, the soldier, says.  
  
"I could tell you stories about storms off the Cape of Andrast that would curl your hair," the second brother, the sailor, says.  
  
"Besides, horses bounce up and down as well," the third brother, the scholar, says.  
  
King Eomer of Rohan lurches over to the rail and loses his lunch. Three pairs of sea-grey eyes regard him speculatively.  
  
"Could we go back in?" he asks queasily.  
  
"Not until you tell us what your intentions towards our sister are," the brothers chorus. Eomer blanches.  
  
  
Paranoidangel: I'd like to be totally predictable and ask for Elrond. Or failing that a drabble with Elrond in I'd also like to be unpredictable and ask for something with Faramir in - but no Boromir or Denethor or Eowyn (because it's my birthday and I'm allowed to be picky).  
  
If you can combine the two you'll have my undying gratitude!  
  
 **Midsummer** \-- by flick  
  
It was the end of Midsummer’s Day. Elrond stood on the White Tower, looking West. The sun hung on the horizon, and one star shone in the sky. The wedding was the zenith of their triumph over the Shadow. All Middle-Earth rejoiced, full of songs and triumph.  
  
Now the sun was sinking. Elrond saw, yet again, the evening awaiting his daughter and all the race of Men. Midsummer would turn to fall and withering, their brightness going down to another shadow.  
  
He heard a step behind him. Then Faramir was beside him, looking to the West. “I come here to speak with my brother. There is life beyond the shadows, though we cannot see it.” After a moment, they turned and went back to the wedding feast.  
  
~*~  
 **A refuge for the weary** \-- Tanaqui  
  
He is wise: a master of lore beyond measure of Man. And it is no great matter on which I yearn to question him.  
  
He has lived long years: since before the world was changed, before ever the Edain went Starwards. My concerns must be as passing ripples on a stream to him.  
  
He is a master of healing, yet my hurt is naught: a burden of the heart.  
  
Still, he also lost a brother in a far land, and learnt of it only later.  
  
“Master Elrond, your pardon, may I beg a moment to speak of my brother, Boromir…?”  
  
 **Youth** —Starlight   
  
The boy is young. What foolishness, calling him a boy! He’s a full man, yet but a child compared to this world we inhabit.  
  
He regards everything with devouring eagerness- including myself. Does he find me intriguing? Perhaps. He must have heard of me, being a scholar.  
  
The Steward meets my gaze and I smile. He smiles back, and it reminds me of myself: curious, mischievous, gentle, eager, anxious- at the same time all, and none. Oh, I was young once!  
  
He approaches, shy but determined. I realize I know him. I was young once; I had a brother, too.  
  
  
Gronyats: I have been rather facinated by Imrahil lately. I recall that Imrahil is a dreamer. I would love to read a drabble about one of his "dreams" or "visions".  
  
 **Seeing** \-- by Tanaqui  
  
My family dream big dreams. It is the gift – or the curse – of our elven heritage.  
  
Yet my visions are small.   
  
My sons have survived the war. The laughter of their children fills my home and gladdens my heart. We have peace with Umbar, so they will never again face those same perils.   
  
My daughter has made a marriage both honourable and pleasing to her. (It is well, too, that a man should like the father of his grandchildren!)   
  
My nephew has found happiness amidst his grief.  
  
My family dream big dreams. I see the present – and I am content.  
  
 **The Wave** —Isabeau of Greenlea  
  
The people of Dol Amroth pride themselves upon their culture and traditions, looking back to the Land of the Gift. For our land too is rich, granting us prosperity and the leisure to cultivate both grace and pretension.  
  
The Princes of Dol Amroth are prideful as well--made princes by the hand of Elendil, is it any wonder we might think ourselves greater than other men? But to the rulers of my house is sent the dream: the wave, black, devouring, all encompassing. A reminder that there is more to the story. A warning that pride could whelm us once again.  
  
 **A Father's Dream** —Blue Iris  
  
I dreamed last night of my mother; gone when I was a boy, passing in the warmth of a summer day. I dreamed of my sister, the blazing heat reflecting off white city walls as she passed from us, her hair dark, with youth still upon her. I dreamed also of my wife; giving me my last child, as the winds of a summer storm whipped around our palace, and took her from me. My daughter went northward yesterday, and I dreamed of her; grandchildren at her knee, hair as white as mountain snow, lines of laughter upon her face.  
  
  
Flick: A simple request: "Remembering Boromir…" How would someone, great or small, named or unnamed, remember Boromir? It could be a thought, a letter, a conversation, or something about an actual memorial – anything.   
  
  
**Links** —Forodwaith  
  
The broken horn hung now in a place of honour in the Hall of the Kings. Frodo stood before it with a simple golden chain pooled in his palm. He twisted it around the four fingers of his right hand, remembering the mountainside. The chain dangled from Boromir's fingers, and the Man's eyes followed the Ring's slow pendulum.  
  
Standing on tiptoe, Frodo reached up to twine the links around the baldric of the horn, where they gleamed dully in the sunlight from the high windows. "The same chain bound us, Boromir. I hope you are free of it now."  
  
 **Houses of Healing** —by Dwimordene  
  
A Ranger knows when he's watched; at the rail, Faramir turns from contemplating Mordor. From the garden gate, the Ranger-king nods acknowledgment ere joining him, but 'tis not the East he watches.   
  
"Sire."  
  
"'Aragorn'. You seem pensive."  
  
"I am." And to the expectant silence: "I'd always thought 't'would be Boromir and I on the field... to the last," he says.  
  
Aragorn sighs. They speak no more 'til duty calls the king away.  
  
***  
  
But just ere bed, a box comes for the Steward. Within he finds the vambraces, and so nearly misses the note:  
  
 _To the last, son of Gondor. —A._  
  
~*~  
 **Dream Steward** \-- by ~Nessime  
  
The horse stood waiting by the fountainhead. His legs were scratched, his mane tangled. The empty saddle showed the ill effects of water.   
  
Éomer’s soft-voiced words soothed the trembling horse as Théodred ran practiced hands over the dusty coat, looking for signs that might tell the rider’s fate. There was naught.  
  
“He is unhorsed - that is all. Such a doughty man will find his way afoot if needs must.”   
  
"Twas a fool's errand - a dreamer chasing shadows," sneered Gríma, coming down the steps behind them.  
  
"Nay," countered Théodred, "he is the steward of his people’s future, pursuing hope."   
  
~*~  
 **Brother** \- by paranoidangel  
  
Faramir walked the city, desiring solitude. He tried to shake off his feelings of guilt for giving Boromir's clothes to the poor of Minas Tirith. Boromir no longer needed them, yet Faramir was not ready to give his brother up.  
  
He was not allowed to be alone, though, for Aragorn fell into step beside him.  
  
"I always wondered what it would be like to grow up with a brother," he said.  
  
Faramir gave a rueful smile. "When we were younger and we fought I would wish I didn't have a brother."  
  
Aragorn frowned. "Tell me," he said and Faramir did.  
  
~*~  
 **Legacies** \-- by Tanaqui  
  
Faramir blinked in surprise as Pippin turned his blade and stepped inside his guard. When he had agreed to spar with the Halfling, he had not expected him to be so… competent.  
  
“Where did you learn that?” he asked suspiciously as Pippin moved back.  
  
“Boromir taught Merry and me some things.” Pippin caught the pained expression that flitted across Faramir’s face. “I’m sorry, my lord–.” he stammered.  
  
Faramir raised a hand and smiled. “He was a good teacher. I should have remembered he taught _me_ never to underestimate an opponent. Let us see what other legacies he left for us.”  
  
 **Shieldbearers** —Alawa  
  
The end of _Solmonath_ was a time of remembrance in the Riddermark.  
  
Standing with Eomer, Lothiriel watched the river flowing around Theodred’s resting place as around a boat’s prow. Horn-calls and grieving voices sang of the glorious Shieldbearer, his might in battle, wisdom in council; but she knew well enough the sorrow they both shared was for smaller memories than these. For cousins can be close as brothers, after all.  
  
Quietly then she remembered Boromir’s kindly arm around her shoulders, the comforting smell of oil on leather and, against her cheek, the swordsman’s calluses as he brushed away her tears.  
  
 **In Memoriam** —Marta  
  
I stood along Anduin's now-fair banks, gazing toward Minas Anor. "Aye, it is fair, father, but I do not see…"  
  
Beregond shook his head. "Not west." He placed his hand on my shoulder and faced me toward the North. "Look to the site of Gondor's victory."  
  
Of course I had heard the stories. How the Prince of the City was pierced by many arrows. How he had fallen but not faltered.  
  
And then I understood. Our horn had been cloven, our chest pierced, but still Gondor strove on. Like Boromir.  
  
The faithful jewel had not failed; he had conquered.  
  
 **Spilling Buckets** —Gronyats  
  
Messengers. Only ill news begotten in these evil days. Our refuge unsafe from such things.  
  
Memories. A soldier of calloused, gentle hands touched mine as I went to retrieve a bucket spilled by ruffians. “Please, my lady, let me?”  
  
Nodding. My family was leaving this place for safer grounds. Our lands were over run. His eyes were kind and sad. He was beautiful and fell, simultaneously. “At least I can help you on your way, even though I can’t spare you this, my lady.”  
  
Returning. “Boromir is dead, Boromir is dead.”  
  
Starlight:I would love a drabble about cultural exchanges. How people in Middle-earth deal with each other's differences as neighbors, friends, fellow-fellowship members... :-) and how they go about working to get over those differences (if they do). It could be a first meeting or any sort of encounter between people of different cultures. Or, I would *love* to hear about your favorite character. Write a drabble about your favorite character during a moment that moves you, doing his/her favorite activity, during a pivotial moment in his/her life. Just let me know who's your favorite! I'd be ever so grateful...  
  
 **Neighbors** —Dwimordene  
  
If there's a wrong side of the river, as they say, they're neither sure which side it is. Blodwyn, watering her horses, hears the bleeting sheep first, then spies the dark lass among them across the ford. It's been a time since they've seen each other—when the war came, the Isenlands were cleared. The spear-ringed mound tells a too-common tale, and the Dunlending wears a shawl black as Blodwyn's. Who knows but that their men may now lie brother-buried in the Deep...?   
  
"Goddaeg, Dunlending! 'Ware for caltrops!" Blodwyn calls gruffly.  
  
The reply floats back, "Ne sees nane, Forgoil. Ge'dag!"  
  
~*~  
 **A good custom** \-- by Tanaqui  
  
“A birthday present?” Faramir frowned. “You must be mistaken. My birthday is not for some months.”  
  
“No, it’s mine.” Pippin explained. “Hobbits give presents to others on their own birthdays. It means we each get something most weeks. It’s a good custom!”  
  
“Yes, I can see that.” Faramir laughed. “I shall have to remember it.” He bowed to Pippin. “My thanks and my best wishes for your birthday.”  
  
Yet Pippin knew he had received the better gift when he saw the delight that lit Faramir’s face as he unrolled a little pencil sketch of Boromir that the hobbit had drawn.  
  
  
 **Good for the Chase** —Tenshi Androgynous  
  
Nahar snorts, dancing to the side to avoid trampling it. What new game is this? It looks too spindly to be good for eating, but with those long legs, perhaps it is good for the chase…  
  
I prod it with my spear, hoping it might try to run that I may pursue it. The creature squawks at me, and amazingly in its chatter I discern words I can understand!  
  
"Who are you?" I ask. "What is your kind?"  
  
It balks to hear me speak, but answers. "Ingwë," it named itself. "Quendi. We thought you were..." Ingwë shivers, "the Other One."  
  
  
 **Begin Again** —paranoidangel  
  
The day was warm and there was a breeze to speed the travellers on their way - a perfect day for sailing. Would that this was only a trip.  
  
Elrond stood on the shore, his hair blowing in his face. He did not notice because he was watching the ships as they moved further away. As his brother moved further away from him.  
  
He knew not whether he would see Elros again. It did not matter though - his brother had eagerly anticipated this day, looking forward to his new life. Now it was time for Elrond to begin his.  
  
 **Night and Day** —Marta (double drabble)  
  
"Master Gimli!"  
  
I turned and saw the newly crowned king crossing the hall.  
  
"Éomer King," I said, bowing so low my beard brushed the floor. "At your service."  
  
"Aye, as you always have been."  
  
But the king's expression was deadly serious. I straightened myself and looked at him questioningly.  
  
"I must beg your service once more. Have you your axe?"  
  
" No. Should I send for it?"  
  
Éomer sighed, but I caught the glint in his eye. "Perhaps. Harsh words still separate us." He spoke of the lady Galadriel: first of my lady's perilous beauty, then the wisdom of her eyes and her resplendent hair, more precious to me than mithril.  
  
"And if I had but met her in different company, I would feel as you do, I am sure."  
  
His eyes trailed to the queen Arwen, and my blood boiled.  
  
Aye, the queen was lovely, but she was no match for my lady.  
  
"Should I send for my sword?"  
  
Would these fair ladies bring us to blows, then? I mastered the legendary temper of my kind, and saw beyond his words: the love we bestowed was not so different.  
  
"Nay. You chose the Evening; my love belongs to the Morning.  
  
 **Mirrors of the Soul** —flick (double drabble)  
  
He looked down one last time upon his brother’s face. How he knew it was the last time he could not tell. He was not a visionary, like his brother. He had the practical intellect of a soldier. Yet he knew in his heart that he would never return to the White City, never look into Faramir’s eyes again.  
  
Before him he saw only darkness and death. So he looked down for one long moment, hoping to draw strength from his brother’s eyes, alight with tears. Faramir’s eyes had always held his soul in them for all the world to see. From the moment Boromir had peered over the edge of the baby’s cradle and seen those eyes, he had loved Faramir with a fierce, protective passion.  
  
He remembered the day they had made paper boats to send off into the current of the Anduin, to freedom and adventures they had both longed to share. How Faramir's eyes had shone with delight. He remembered Faramir’s eyes the day their mother died. It was the same raw pain, the same desolation he saw now. He bent down a fraction toward his brother, wanting to say some word of hope, something to erase the pain in those eyes.  
  
The words died in his throat. He saw, reflected in his brother’s eyes, the same vision of darkness and death that had come to him. He tore his eyes from that mirror and, turning his horse away, left the White City forever  
  
nutterzoi: I would also like to request an Elrond drabble. I know someone else requested Elrond and Faramir, but I'd like to request Elrond and *a* family member - blood relative, adopted - makes no difference to me. (er... if it's not too much trouble...)  
  
 **Letting Go** \- by paranoidangel  
  
"Adar."  
  
Elrond turned to her and there was a tear in his eye. Arwen stepped back - her father never cried. But he held out his arms and smiled at her, so she stepped into them.  
  
"I wish things were different," she said.  
  
"We cannot change the past."  
  
Arwen said nothing, wishing she could hold on to childish fantasies.  
  
"I should not have let your mother go, but now I must, though I do not want to."  
  
"Neither do I."  
  
But they both knew he would do what was best for Celebrían, not Elrond. He always had and always would.  
  
~*~  
 **Mother and Son** \-- by Tanaqui  
  
She comes to meet me on the quay. Star-spray amidst the mist of the sea as it frets against the stones of the Swan-haven. Two ages of the world since our hands last touched.   
  
I have been war captain and lore master, counsellor and comrade. Yet I am shy before her, wondering if my deeds will please her, make her proud. I am sad also I have brought no grandchild to gladden her heart. I fear, in truth, she may know none of them.   
  
She takes my hands and smiles, and I find I have not misremembered all these years.  
  
~*~  
 **Messengers** — by Wild Iris  
  
I was a child when the star appeared, in the wild days of rumour. Someone said to me: _it is your father, young one; he left as the herald of the Slain, and he is returned as the herald of the Valar_.  
  
I knew it for truth. I spoke my hopes to Eärendil in the secret places of the night.  
  
I knew it for falsehood, when my brother died. The star was a ball of fire, and my father at the bottom of the sea.  
  
For no one who had seen those legends wrought had returned to tell the truth of them in Ennor.  
  
Until now.  
  
 **Untitled** —Forodwaith for nutterzoi  
  
He watches Arwen as she cuts the arrowhead from her brother's shoulder, her eyes as steady as her hands on the surgeon's knife. Before she asks, he presses a cloth into her outstretched hand and she blots the blood sliding down Elladan's arm.  
  
Later, while they put the stillroom in order, Elrond draws his daughter into his arms and kisses her hair, smooth and shining as the obsidian tool she wielded on her brother's flesh. "It is well that there are two healers to care for the two hunters in this family." Her rare smile illuminates the grave grey eyes.  
  
 **Letting Go** —Tenshi Androgynous for nutterzoi  
  
I have held the very stars in my hands, the light of the Eldar and Edain. Yet stars cannot be held forever.  
  
Though I sought to lay hands on different light, nonetheless I have come to love the light found unlooked-for. Now I must let go of what I love, and seek what I no longer want. I do too little, too late; one reparation in a lifetime of mistakes.  
  
As the Age draws near its close, so too my story – I have one more task ahead of me. Your part is but beginning. I release you.  
  
 **Vision** —flick (nutterzoi)  
  
Elrond could see many things. He had seen them on Cerin Amroth, seen Arwen’s doom sealed as they stood entwined, elanor and niphrodel like small stars scattered at their feet. Like stars themselves, clothed in white and silver, they plighted their troth. Did they see the darkness around them?  
  
Years had passed, that shadow gone. Now he joined their hands. Those who stood by saw all the stars of that midsummer evening blossom in the sky as Estel embraced his Evenstar, hope fulfilled. Elrond saw an abyss of time between them, a marble tomb and a green grave on Cerin Amroth. Beyond that he could not see. As he held their hands in that moment, Elrond saw many things. Yet he envied them.  
  
 **The Heirs of Isildur** —Marta  
  
The Half-elf sat up and squinted in the early-morning light pouring through the windows, now deprived of their drapes.  
  
"Aravir? Why are you...?"  
  
The six-year-old scowled at him. "My name is not Aravir."  
  
Elrond shook his head, trying to focus his mind. Of course not. Aravir had been speared by an orc-captain; that was nigh fifty years ago.  
  
"Argonui?"  
  
The child stomped over to the bed, placing his hands on his hips. "My. Name. Is. Arador." The future chieftain stormed out of the room.  
  
 _Why must Isildur have so many heirs?_ Elrond hurried after the child to apologise. 


	6. June 2004

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For each month, members whose birthdays fall in that month will specify a prompt/theme/question/idea that they would like to see drabbled in the ["HASA Birthday Cards Forum"](http://www.henneth-annun.net/members/welcome.cfm). Other members (anyone interested in any of the themes) will then try to write a drabble on those themes. Completed drabbles get uploaded here under the name of the member whose 'birthday card' it is. This story has all 2004 birthday drabbles.

Gwynnyd: I like pre-War Aragorn a lot. And Pippin; there's so much more to Pippin than a bumbling clown. Liz and Marta have me hooked on Faramir. And Trish keeps feeding me Legolas. Any of those alone or in combination would be lovely. I, I, I like it all! How can I choose?

 

**Joining the Company** \- Alawa

When the days darkened towards midwinter, and the weather grew foul, _The Pony’s_ common-room was the only place to be. Somewhat bemused, Aragorn found it could even be good, as a mug of Barley’s best appeared, unasked for, at his elbow.

He studied the ring of expectant faces, softened by ale and firelight. “Come on Strider! Give us another!” For once the shouts were friendly, suspicion forgotten in the strange magic of his tales.

Slowly, deliberately he sampled his beer, biding his time. Then, when he judged the moment right, he cast his spell again and a breathless silence reigned.

 

**Time in the Ditch** —Dwimordene

"There are no rooms here," the innkeep had said, and closed the door. And so Aragorn had departed, and found a place beyond the walls, beneath a little rise. And as he lay on his back, gazing tiredly up at the sky, he thought of a long ago evening.

"Weary of ditches?" Gandalf had replied to a young man's querulous question. "Yes, of course. But they have their advantages."

Aragorn smiled to himself. Through years and far lands, he had sought them, and finally discovered _one_ : Time in the ditch was dark, but at least the stars shone clearest there.

*****

* Titular phrase ripped off from John McCumber's book, "Time in the Ditch". He ripped it off from the story of Thales. So I don't feel quite so terrible.

 

**Wandering in the Wild** —Tanaqui

Another night of hard cold. No breath of wind. On evenings such as these, he builds the fire and watches bright Earendil sail westward.

He prefers the cold to the wet. The worst are the spring rains, when icy fingers find their way into all his gear and it seems he will never be dry. The stars are clouded then. On autumn nights, they come and go in the scurrying wrack, uncertain, unsettled, and he fears the lazy wind of the morrow.

Yet whatever the weather, always he is warmed by memories of a night of midsummer, and his Evenstar.

 

**A prince among Halflings** —Tanaqui

It is the coronation of my King, but we also honour the Halflings. Two who saved all Middle-earth. And two who saved that dearest to me alone.  
  
Merry comes cheerfully to greet us. His cousin holds back; we are both a little shy. When last we met, I did not know what had befallen, nor the part he played.

“Peregrin, son of Paladin,” my voice seems as stiff as my bow, “you have served Gondor well and her Steward thanks you.”

Yet more is needed. I kneel so our faces are level. “Pippin,” I take his hands, “ _I_ thank you.”

 

Ti'ana Luthien: I'd like something happy with Boromir and Faramir together. Any period of time is fine but no slash please.

 

**Optics** —Dwimordene

The City resplendent gleams beneath the king's banner. The widow in her weeds becomes a bride in her brilliance; Minas Tirith sheds the shroud of despair that has so long darkened her ways.

Walking her ancient streets, he feels Boromir close, like the heat on his back, intimate as his own shadow. Despite grief Faramir is glad, for not by hands alone is Minas Tirith transformed, else shades linger on, dead in memory. Eyes, too, must see as through a different glass:

_For our fallen live now but in us. Therefore walk with me, brother—live renewed in my sight!_

 

Avon: I'd absolutely love Legolas and Aragorn friendship (not romance) but for those who find that too much of a stretch I could enjoy almost any Legolas - or Faramir and Boromir.

 

**Taken** \-- by Arandil

A son of Gondor, a noble man whose loyalty to his people is second to nothing. My brother in arms, he made me realize the strength left in men; there is courage yet. I know now, when I fight for this world, til my last breath, I won't be alone.

He fell too soon. His blade sang that day, but we were overcome. The enemy has claimed another fine warrior; a son, a brother, now never to be a father. His death will not be in vain; our city will not fall and the strength of men will not fail.

**Snow on Snow** \-- by Nickey

They both are deep in drifts so high their heads are little more than indentations in the snow. I look down and laugh for joy of the sight, turned back to darker paths though we are, for strong backs of Men, and light feet of Elves will yet prevail, and Fellowship will hold, through more than Caradhras’ spite. Although unlooked for, when first I set out from my father’s halls, I am now blessed, for I have found this friendship that blooms as flowers in the Spring, and proud am I, that now I have Men to call Elf-friend.

 

“He laughs at us, Aragorn.” Boromir’s beard is full of snow, and yet I know that if I too were to smile, the proud Man of Gondor would not understand, would take it amiss that the laughter of an Elf comes whether one wills it or no, and the heart of a ranger lightens to hear it, even here, deep in the drifts of Caradhras’ malice. So, instead, I clasp his shoulder, as all the reassurance I can offer, and bend to shovel again with a will. I can smile then, secretly, into the snow. Legolas will understand my silence.

 

**Hidden Power** —Elvenesse

There is something strange about this man, a hidden power that belies his rough appearance. He is one of the Dúnedain it is true; yet somehow different to any mortal I have met before.

He captured this foul creature in Mordor and journeyed here at Mithrandir’s behest. Who is he that he would go where Elves fear to tread? Who is he that Mithrandir would trust him with such an errand?

‘Estel’ he names himself and speaks our tongue as one born to it. As I approach him he looks up, and his eyes seem to pierce my very soul.

  
Nickey: My birthday is June 7th as well, and I'd like anything hobbity, if I may? Merry in particular, I never think he gets enough attention

 

**Changes** —Dwimordene

The Party Tree was alive with lights. Dancers swirled and the guests laughed over their plates. No fireworks this time, Merry thought, feeling a touch of sadness. No wizard. No Frodo. Everything was different, yet the Shire seemed unchanged.

Or was that true? For there was Sam, the blushing new-made mayor. And the new Party Tree had gold leaves. And then, Merry thought, smiling suddenly, there was the greatest proof of the world's changing. For Peregrine Took, who'd never seemed likely to settle, had eyes only for Diamond as they danced alone.

"No more changes for the worst," Merry murmured.

 

**Fellow Travellers** \- Alawa

Aragorn found his new travelling companion under the stars. “We had no chance to speak, after the Council, but please forgive my harsh words - I was taken by surprise.”

Legolas bowed, gracefully, remorsefully. “The fault was entirely ours.”

“I wonder. I fear I may be too close to see clearly where that miserable creature is concerned.”

“Two months dangerous travel burdened with such as he. Foul-mouthed, sly, recalcitrant - and the smell! A sore trial indeed.”

“Indeed, but at least you may be certain I will not bite.” Aragorn’s smile glinted in the moonlight as light-hearted laughter drifted through the trees.

 

Beruthiel: I'd like a moment between Pippin and Diamond of Long Cleeve. It can be before or after their wedding, but preferably after.

 

Lady Aranel: Legolas, Legolas, Legolas.... mmmm... Legolas. No slash please! Het. smut, non-smut, OFC all welcome.

**Mercy** —Marta

"Daro!" Legolas cried into the night air. The shuffling sound of heavy boots on fallen leaves stopped.

"Nock your arrows," he whispered to the other elves, reaching into his own quiver and fitting a well-crafted feather to his bowstring. "What business have you in Greenwood?" he demanded, stepping into the clearing.

Never had he imagined he'd face twelve half-starved dwarves, huddling together. Yet there they were. The one in the tattered blue hood looked at him, the muddling effect of spiders' venom clear in his eyes.

"Easy," Legolas said to the guard beside him. "Tie their hands tightly - but not cruelly."

 

**Gone** \-- by Arandil

He is gone.

The pain stings my heart much like the cries of the gulls pierce my soul. A hand grasps my arm in an attempt at comfort and an expression of shared grief. I turn and look at my friend with new eyes. My last mortal friend. How long until he is taken from me as well? Why must my friends go where I may not follow? Alas for the curse of my people that I must watch while all I hold dear fades away.

He is gone, and with him a part of me is lost as well.

 

**Knives** \- by Cheryl

“For you, _muindor_.”

Legolas slowly reached out, his hand wrapping around the ivory hilt of the graceful, yet deadly knife. Amazed, he looked up, locking eyes with his brother. “Celeduil, this is yours. I cannot accept it.”

The eldest son of Thranduil smiled. “I am a healer now, Legolas,” his hand closed around his brother’s as he gently pushed the knife to Legolas’ chest. “You carry its twin. They belong together, and your warrior skill is worthy of them both.”

Legolas nodded before smoothly pulling the knife from its sheath. He tipped the blade, watching the evening sunlight reflect from its flawless edge. After a moment, he reached over his shoulder and easily pulled the knife’s mate from its place in front of his quiver.

Legolas rolled his wrists, immediately noticing that not only were both blades perfectly balanced, but also they were also perfectly balanced to each other in both length and weight. Legolas’ smile broadened as he looked once again at his brother. “They do belong together, _muindor. Le hannon_.”  
  
 **Muindor** = brother  
 **Le hannon** = many thanks

 

**Miss** \- by Cheryl

“Legolas?” Gimli slowly approached the elf, looking back and forth between his friend, and a gold-feathered arrow lodged in the tree in front of him.

Gimli wiped an oiled cloth over his axe and stared up at the troubled elf. “It matters not, my friend.”

Hesitantly, Legolas reached out, running his fingers over the arrow’s feathers before pulling it from the tree. “Nay, Master Dwarf, it matters greatly.”

Gimli rolled his eyes in exasperation. “You missed one shot, Legolas! Your next arrow found its mark. Nothing ill came of it!”

Anger replaced bewilderment as Legolas looked down at his friend. “If the next one had missed too, you’d be dead, _elvellon_.”

“Bah!” A mischievous glint appeared in the dwarf’s eyes. “No dwarf is ever blindsided by an orc!”

Anger dissolving, Legolas mouth curled slightly in amusement. “Your ego is formidable, Gimli.”

The dwarf’s grunt was non-committal. “So is your bow.”

Legolas lifted the arrow, staring at its head. “I’ve not missed since I was a novice.”

Gimli nodded and turned away. Stepping over the body of a slain orc, he paused, looking back at his friend. “No one is perfect, Legolas.”

Smiling, Legolas returned the arrow to his quiver.

**elvellon** = "elf friend"

 

**Blossoms** \-- by ErinRua  
( _for both Avon and Lady Aranel._ )

"The city blooms, Legolas," Elessar said, inhaling the fragrances of spring.

Beside him a tall elf gazed contentedly on the changes peace had wrought. "Yes. Leaf and stone together. Look, the morning glories are halfway up the wall."

Bell-shaped blossoms nodded in jeweled hues beneath the smiling sun. Legolas faced Elessar, his own smile widening.

"Nor is the city all that blooms. The Evenstar has never looked more radiant."

Astonishment wiped the king's face momentarily blank. "How did you - we have told no one!"

"I see it in her eyes, my friend." Legolas' hand clasped Elessar's shoulder. "And in yours."

 

**How old?** \-- by paranoidangel  
( _double drabble for Gywnydd, Avon, Nickey and Lady Aranel_ )

"No, older."

"Come on, Pippin, he doesn't look much older than you."

"Why don't we ask him? Loser buys the beer at the next inn we see?"

"That could be a very long way," but Aragorn was smiling as he dropped back level with the two hobbits. "What is the wager?"

"Legolas' age."

"Ah," Aragorn nodded, pretending not to hear Legolas catch up to them.

"Do you know?"

"Yes, Merry, I do."

"Tell us!" Merry and Pippin exclaimed at the same time.

"Legolas might not want me to reveal it. Elves keep their ages a secret, you know."

"We won't tell him you told us."

"Well, if you promise." Aragorn bent down to whisper to the hobbits, "He is older than me, but younger than an Age."

"Strider!"

"I can tell you Aragorn's age to the day," Legolas said, giving Aragorn a wicked grin.

"Traitor," Aragorn said as Merry and Pippin turned round, all thoughts of Legolas' age forgotten as the Elf whispered more quietly than Aragorn had.

When Legolas straightened the hobbits gave Aragorn a pair of smirks and ran to tell Frodo and Sam.

"And just what did you say, my friend?"

Legolas' only answer was a smile.

 

**Cruel Caradhras** —Tanaqui  
(for Avon, Gwynnyd and Lady Aranel)

I did not feel the cold of the snows, nor fear the voices in the wind. My heart was as light as my feet when I went to find the Sun.

How could I know that the brightness I truly loved lived in those stout bodies and brave hearts, struggling with the elements of Arda?

I thought I loved the woods and the waters, yet it was not the trees nor the singing streams that made me fight the call of the sea.

I feel the chill of their departing and I fear the spaces where their voices will be.

 

**And there make a garden** —Tanaqui

The steward watched as the elf paced around the room, passionately expounding his ideas. He wondered if this was some kind of test on the part of the King. At last, Legolas ceased speaking.

Faramir pointed to the map, covered with a tracery of notes and cross-hatchings added as the damage to the City had been surveyed.

“Did you have a particular part of the City in mind for these plans?”  
  
Suddenly a smile lit Legolas’s face.

“I believe the Prince of Ithilien is in need of assistance planning the garden in Emyn Arnen he promised to the White Lady….”

 

Rainsong: I like Celebrian and Miriel.

 

**I Watched Too Long These Waves** —Ainaechoiriel

I watched too long these waves; so swiftly rising. I longed to watch his failure, my husband's. And his puppetmaster Sauron's. Too long I stayed watching, rejoicing in the fall of this wicked people, my own no longer: they chose evil. All the Faithful now are gone, gone to the fires or gone to the waves, gone in nine ships led by Elendil. Too late I ran for the Meneltarma, where once we prayed and then we burned. I cry out for salvation, but the waves run quicker than I. I watched too long these waves and now I die.

 

**I Welcome These Waves** —Ainaechoiriel

(AU: This one is AU, giving a different perspective to Tar-Miriel)

I welcome these waves, climbing ever higher, here to the Meneltarma, where once we prayed and then we burned. I longed to watch his failure, my cousin's, my husband's. And his puppetmaster Sauron's. I rejoice with the waves, joyful in the fall of this wicked people, once my people, my father's people. The Faithful now are gone, gone to the fire or gone to the waves, gone in nine ships led by good Elendil. To the East they go, back to where we started long ago. And I go to the waves, to peace and an end to my despair.

**Reunion** \- paranoidangel

The moment Elrond saw her he threw himself into her arms and held on tight. He reminded himself of her touch and her scent, but most of all that she was there and she was whole again.

He never wanted to let go but had to pull back to better remember her kiss, finding his memory a pale comparison to reality. He fortified himself with the look in her eyes directed at him and knew he could deny it no longer and would had to face reality.

Taking a deep breath he said, "I have to tell you about Arwen."


	7. July 2004

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For each month, members whose birthdays fall in that month will specify a prompt/theme/question/idea that they would like to see drabbled in the ["HASA Birthday Cards Forum"](http://www.henneth-annun.net/members/welcome.cfm). Other members (anyone interested in any of the themes) will then try to write a drabble on those themes. Completed drabbles get uploaded here under the name of the member whose 'birthday card' it is. This story has all 2004 birthday drabbles.

melian elven: in honor of my namesake, i'd love to read something with melian in it, especially her relationship with her daughter luthien. i've often wondered how she would've been as a mother to the most beautiful being on middle earth.

**Personal Grooming** —Wolfwind

Melian imbued her voice with warm excitement. "Luthien! It’s bath time!"

The child responded as she had for the past month: by running. This time, Melian was prepared to catch her.

"Nonononono!" the girl wailed.

Coming back to the present, Melian sighs and tells herself firmly that she does not wish to return to those days.

Instead, she raises her voice. "Luthien!" she calls for the fifth time. "Get out of the bath this instant, young lady! The guests will be arriving at any moment!"

"But Mother!" comes the answering wail. "I haven’t finished my hair!"

 

**Grace** —Dwimordene

There comes a time when the body is no longer free adornment, worn or discarded at will. The horizon tips, and what had been mere surrounding becomes self's substance.

Melian, who has stitched time and trees, now feels for the first time that earthly matter makes its own sense beyond the power of will. This child weighs within her, binding her to bones she'd fashioned for herself and for Thingol. For Thingol, who was born to this strangely happy bondage.

'Tis a dear gift. _To be divested of flesh would be... to die._ A dear gift to share in, indeed.

 

 

Vulgarweed: What's a "normal" "day" in the life like for Yavanna, or Tulkas, or Melian, or Olorin? Does Aule ever want to pitch his tools out the "window"? What about the Brothers M and the first and worst case of sibling rivalry EVAH? Or that weird trio of the waters?

Of course, Istari and Balrogs count. (And what is Tom Bombadil, anyway? Is he one? What about Ungoliant?) Reverence and irreverence both welcome. And erotica, too (het or slash or both); bonus points for integration with matters theological.

 

**Interminable** —Dwimordene

Arising in his might, he had glimpsed the possibility of ceaseless novelty, of ecstatic drama fit to empty oneself for. The promise of all, and all within his grasp would he but bend his will toward it for an instant of that which made and was novelty, time.

Time.

Gravity without grace. That ill-marked instant begat all others–presence unending of the unbearable. He hated the light as he hated the darkness for the truth that composed him. Thus each day dawned the same–a mockery of eternal constancy, that said only and forever: _I defy, else I am not!_

**Olorin I was in my Youth In the West that is Forgotten** —Azalais

"...Gandalf's grumpy, as usual." Peregrin's plaintive tones drift over. Without fire all are chilled, even stoic Dwarf and lighthearted Elf, and the damp is in my joints.

Yet as I shift to ease my sore back memory flares, briefly... _once I was not bound in weary bone and chafed flesh, but made of fire and air, follower in the train of the Lord of Eagles, alive in endless Music..._

The thought flickers, vanishes, in a flash.

"Forgive me, Pippin. I am but an old man, and my knees ache." I sigh heavily, and reach into my cloak for my pipe.

**Farewell** —Forodwaith

"Your task may be complete, Olorin, but I was not sent to Elves and Men only, nor the beasts and birds. I must take thought for all that grows and is green."

"Then you will never be finished, until this world is made anew."

Radagast shrugged. "I shall be satisfied if I help to preserve something worth remaking. The Elves are departing, and the Men who remain hew and hunt and harvest with little thought for tomorrow and none for the day of their children's children. I must do what I can to teach them otherwise. Did you not say yourself that you would not wholly fail, if anything survived to grow fair or bear fruit again?"

"Do as you must; but I shall miss you, brother," the grey wizard said.

"Take my greetings to Valinor with you, and tell my lady that I still work to fulfill her charge."

**Children of Aulë** —Avon

Strong you will be, strong and unyielding: strong in friendship and in muscles. Strong you will need to be: strong enough to work alongside me with metal, fire and stone: strong enough to face the power of Melkor. Loyal I will make you too, and hardy, for you are my children and I would have you live long lives and love truly. You will toil without tiring, just as I do: and I will teach you all my skills and crafts. Together we will make this land more beauteous than ever was – but first I must create you, my children.

**Another Day, Another Fight** —Wolfwind

I neigh in triumph as we hew down our final opponent. Stepping clear of the mangled body, I wipe my golden hooves to remove the caustic blood.

"There are more of the foul things each time we ride!" Oromë growls. "Why will Manwë not heed me? Shall the Children awake to desolation and evil?"

I ignore the familiar rant; there are yet monsters to hunt. Our battles will aid more than arguing with the stiff-necked Lord of the Valar.

But my partner does not agree, and so we turn back to Valinor, where another shouting match will no doubt ensue.

 

Marta: I want something in some way involving a dwarf. There are so many great moments involving Dwarves, and I'd love to see a moment involving one of them. If you can include Bilbo, that's even better.

Failing that, I will be predictable. I also wouldn't say no to something involving pre-Ring War Denethor.

 

**There and Back Again** —Elena Tiriel

Memoirs had always fascinated Frodo. As a lad, he had begged Bilbo daily to retell the tales of his grand adventure with his doughty dwarven companions.

When Balin paid them a surprise visit, Frodo attended eagerly as the white-beard told of rebuilding the Lonely Mountain and filling the Dragon's Desolation with sturdy stoneworks.

Balin's deep voice had resonated with pride for the reconstruction of the halls of his forefathers. But Frodo had also heard a hint of longing for his people's once-hallowed home, Khazad-dûm.

Now, Gandalf sighed and put down the Book of Records. "I fear their end was cruel."

 

**Diaspora** —Dwimordene

It was a meticulous affair—naturally, for they were Dwarves. All filed orderly over the bridge, through the last halls, becoming a patient throng above Kheled-zâram. And as rank upon rank joined their fellows, they turned their faces West, and waited.

Finally, with the last of his guard and the much diminished company of those valiant wrights who had sealed their foe within, Thráin appeared at the gates. Thereupon, Dúrin's Heir spoke: "Weep not! The ends of the earth are our destiny, but Khazad-dûm our heart. We leave the way open for return."

Unbowed, they began the long march East.

 

**The Gift** — Maya (maya_ar)

The young man watched for his master’s verdict with nervous anticipation. A labour of love and hope, to put into this last piece every ounce of craftsmanship he had learned: he, the first of the men of Dale to seek the fabled lore of the Dwarves since the return of the King under the Mountain. Three years of toil beneath the Lonely Mountain: now he would hear their worth.

“Good,” the ancient dwarf pronounced. “You have learned well, young Barding. Apprentice no longer: Toymaker of Dale I name you.”

He put down the toy thrush, perfect in every detail. Turning the key in its side made the wings flutter and the beak sing.

“A fitting gift for the young cousin of Master Bilbo Baggins, surely.”

**Legacy** —Elana (triple drabble)

I remember a happy day beneath the Mountain. I was but a child of ten years. My mother took me for the first time to the gem-cutter’s cavern, and held my hands beneath hers on the tools as we shaped the rough jewels. For the first time I knew the joy of creating beauty with my touch.

That night, Smaug came.

With wind and fire he invaded, driving us panicking into the night. He took my home from me. Do you know what home is to a woman of the Dwarves? It is our bedrock, our foundation, our roots deep as the roots of the mountain. When I left my home it was as if the ground turned to sand constantly shifting under my feet. When I lay down to sleep I felt the earth tilt and tremble, and there was no solidity to be found anywhere. Through our years of wandering I learned to keep my balance amidst the constant unsteadiness, but without my home, I could never be truly stable.

For a hundred years I have endured thus. When we came here I even managed to carve out a secure enough place that I was able to master my body to my will, force it to accept a husband, even come at last to fertility that I might conceive. For I needed sons.

You are young now, my Fili, my Kili, but you will grow. When you come to maturity, you will join my brother when he returns. He dreams of gold, but I know that is the least the worm stole from us. I will teach you to hunger and thirst for retribution. And when you have spent your toil and blood, and the dragon lies writhing in his death throes, then will your mother be avenged.

 

**Drums in the Deep** —Forodwaith

_Doom. Doom, doom._

The dwarves huddled around Balin's tomb did not stir. By now the baneful drumming was a constant background to their restless, nightmarish sleep.

"It's louder," Ori said suddenly. "The orcs must have reached the Great Hall."

Bor silently inspected the barred door to the Chamber of Mazarbul. "It will hold for perhaps ten minutes against a ram," he said. "Less if they have a cave troll."

The drumbeat began to accelerate. Orcish shrieks reverberated in the hall.

Laying his axe aside for a moment, Ori took up the Book of Records to write its final entry.

**Father to Son** —Azalais

Blackness and stench nearly overwhelm me. Screams further off, closer only dying whimpers, and disguise forbids I ease their passing. Yet one chained in this corner can still speak, though he raves.

"Ring, my Ring... stolen from me - curse them! - last of the Seven..."

He breaks off coughing, broken lungs straining; little time left. I risk the faintest glimmer to look closer at his face, and for a moment sanity gleams desperate in his clouded eyes. He gropes feebly inside the rags of his tunic.

"Map... key..." He presses them into my hands, eyes pleading with me. "For my son."

**Goldfinch and Nightingale** —nrink_nrink

Sisters they were, yet one was nightingale dark, the other bright as a goldfinch in the summer sun. Shivering, the younger turned her face from the pale stone walls that soared into silver-mirrored sky.

"Look, there lies the White City," their mother smiled.

"It is beautiful," the dark one whispered. "Finduilas, look how it glitters like a jewel between earth and sky!"

"I see only stone where I would look upon the sea." And tears like dew glimmered on golden lashes.

"Hush now, little one," said her mother with a kiss. "You shall have the sea again by and by."

 

**The Deathless** —Wolfwind

"Durin!"

He tried to ignore the voice echoing through the Dwarf Halls.

"Durin!"

Durin slammed his tools down and glared at the interloper. "What do you want, Mahal?"

His Maker took no offense at the tone; he was well acquainted with his son’s hatred of interruptions. "It is time."

"Again? Can’t my idiotic descendants manage a single century without me? And why do they always need me when I’m working?" Despite his grumbling, Durin was already putting away his tools. With a sigh of regret, he set his half-finished creation on a shelf and turned to his Father. "I’m ready."

**Not One Word** —annmarwalk

Skilled she was with pen, and ink, and all her drafter’s tools. When the Master of the Works sought to build a new bridge or aqueduct, to craft a change to a watercourse or road, he needed only to describe it to her in the briefest of terms, and her gift would bring the vision to life.

When she heard that Gimli son of Gloin had left the Lonely Mountain, bound for Imladris, she sketched him quickly, before the memory should fade. It was her first drawing of a living creature, and she kept it with her always, in secret.

****  
 _For not all the women take husbands: some desire none; some desire one that they cannot get, and so will have no other._ (Appendix A – III, Durin’s Folk)

 

**Reunion** —paranoidangel

The moment Elrond saw her he threw himself into her arms and held on tight. He reminded himself of her touch and her scent, but most of all that she was there and she was whole again.

He never wanted to let go but had to pull back to better remember her kiss, finding his memory a pale comparison to reality. He fortified himself with the look in her eyes directed at him and knew he could deny it no longer and would had to face reality.

Taking a deep breath he said, "I have to tell you about Arwen."

****

A/N: Marta gave me special dispensation to write some post-Ring War Elrond, which, of course, I couldn't resist.

**Victory** —Tanaqui

Victory!

The fleet is burnt. The old enemy is defeated. Loud in the streets the people sound the name of the great captain who has wrought this triumph.

Yet he is not here to hear their praise.

_Other tasks now call me, lord, and much time and many perils must pass, ere I come again to Gondor, if that be my fate._

The steward’s son listens to the message and bows his head.

_Where has he gone? What other tasks outweigh needs of Gondor? What perils does he face?_

When will he return?

_May fate be kind indeed!_ he thinks.

**From the Eastern Force** —Tanaqui

They are grim-faced, but we welcome them as comrades, for their hearts are true. Their reach is short but their blows fall heavy on our foes. Like the stones some say they spring from, they were made to endure.

Yet their grief for the Fallen is no less than ours.

The Worm, deep-wounded by Naugrim knife, flees the field, and the beasts of Angband follow. We shout our joy.

Yet they mark it not. We see them leave, bearing their lord: steps slow; voices deep; mourning, unmindful as the battle rages still.

Their hearts are spent, now weep we all.

 

**Untitled** —Lady Aranel (double drabble)

"Gloin!"

An unfamiliar voice echoed through the hall of the Lonely Mountain. Gloin looked up from his desk to see the door to his study thrown open by Thranduil Orophinion. The elvenkings’s face was a shade of red Gloin had seldom seen, even in jewels. He might have been angry at the interruption if the picture presented before him had not been so amusing.

"What is this?" Thranduil shook a scroll at him.

The dwarf rose. "I assure you, I do not know."

"My son does not return from Imladris. He sends word that he will follow the ringbearer to Mordor!" Thanduil tossed the parchment on the desk between them.

"I do not understand," the dwarf shook his head. "’Twas not mentioned in the plans at the council."

"He goes with your son!"

Gloin paled."There was talk of Gimli going. Idle chatter only or so I thought! I bid him stay and see the outcome."

"Now we know. And what choice do we have but to ally our forces to keep the eye turned away, if we are to ever see our sons again?"

The dwarf paused. "I see none."

"Then, tell me," Thranduil sighed. "What path do they take?"

**Stone and Garlands** —ErinRua

"Good stone," said Gimli, stamping a heavy foot. "It needed but a craftsman's touch. Now rainwater will flow only in the gutters, no more to splash at every step."

"Aye," Legolas replied, but his eyes looked elsewhere. "And listen! It is well the elves brought finches; they add such cheer to the gardens."

"Finches," snorted Gimli. "Already they make spots on the curbs."

Legolas smiled. Gimli paused and stroked his beard.

"Could those flowers be trained onto that statue's shoulder?"

"They could."

"Then let us have it so."

They walked on together smiling, for Minas Tirith wore her garlands gladly.

**Change in Perception** —Arandil

"Gloin!" Bilbo stood as the dwarf entered the Hall of Fire.

"At the service of you and your family."

Bilbo crossed the hall. "Good to see you!" Only then did he notice Gloin’s worried expression. "What troubles you?"

"I fear for my son’s safety on this mission. He is sure to encounter many perils."

"Ah, but was our own adventure not riddled with danger?" Bilbo said comfortingly.

"True," Gloin sighed deeply, "but this is my son."

Bilbo glanced quickly at Frodo who was conversing with his young friends. He placed a comforting hand on Gloin’s shoulder. "I understand, my friend."

 

Aramel: In Singapore, where I stayed for a time, July 21 was racial harmony day. Thus, I humbly ask for something about Legolas and Gimli and their friendship.

Or if that's a bit hard, an Éowyn fic would be highly appreciated too.

**Dirge** —Dwimordene

On the morning air it came again—Elves singing grief. Uncomfortably alone by their pavillions, Elf and Dwarf glanced up. And Legolas grew still as stone, listening, til a shudder passed through him. Gimli raised a brow: "Don't you like it?"

"No. Melody catches not Mithrandir; 'tis dead memory," he replied, and turned bright eyes on him. Strangely hesitant, that look, but more strange still the request: "Will you not sing?"

"I?" Gimli frowned. Dwarves have many songs for hard days, but to sing for outsiders...?

"Please," said Legolas quietly.

After a long moment, Gimli stood, and began to chant...

 

**Khuzdul** —Wolfwind

"I will never understand your tongue."

Legolas laughed. "Perhaps we spend too much time on it. Why don't you teach me your language instead?"

Gimli halted. Such a thought had never occurred to him, despite the amount of time Legolas had spent teaching him Sindarin. Elvish was changeful, spoken by all; Dwarves preserved the tongue Mahal gave them in secret. It had been an Age since any foreigner learned Khuzdul.

But this was Legolas, who had named him Elvellon. Dwarves had no equivalent title, but teaching him Khuzdul would give him the same status.

"We call ourselves Khazad," he began.

**Elvellon** —Jay of Lasgalen

"Father? This is Gimli."

In the silence that follows, I ponder our friendship. A friendship that transcends the ancient enmities between our peoples, friendship that perplexes many.

Perhaps the first seeds were sown long ago, at Erebor. I learned then that your folk were not the cowardly Naugrim of legend, but stout and valiant warriors. On the Quest I came to know more of you; and with knowledge came acceptance. With acceptance came friendship, growing to the sort of friendship I have been blessed with before, but never thought to find again.

My father smiles, and bows. "Welcome, Gimli Elvellon."

**Mithril and Oak** —Avon

He looks as delicate as the faint traceries of mithril that shine in walls far underground, yet, like that metal, his strength is beyond testing. He shines with that same unearthly beauty too – fairer than anything else on earth. Mithril fair and mithril strong is my friend the Elf.

He has all the solid strength of an oak: deep-rooted, immovable and long-growing. Unyielding he can seem, yet, like the oak, a living warmth beats through him. I find a beauty in him - as in a gnarled and rough-barked oak. Oak hardy and oak strong is my friend the Dwarf

**The Whole of the Tale** —ErinRua

Forty-two, Gimli claimed, and cursed the orc whose iron collar had notched his ax. Forty-two and he had bested an elven warrior's skill, albeit by only one. Yet in the clear light of dawn, amidst battle's wrack, elf and dwarf greeted each other in joy. Strange perhaps they seemed to watching eyes, unlikely and unmatched. One stood lithe as a tall white birch and the other blunt as stone.

"Glad am I to see you on your legs!" Legolas cried. T'was the greeting of warrior-to-warrior.

Nonetheless, in their faces shone the whole of the tale: the greeting of brother-to-brother.

**Good Authority** —Aliana

"Which would you prefer?" she asks, placing a hand over her rounded belly. "A boy, or a girl?"

Across the room, he peers over the top of his book. "Either would please me very well, my dear."

"Really!" She, alone, can detect when he is hesitant. "None of your careful diplomacy, sir!"

"Very well," he laughs. "A girl, then. I have it on good authority that boys are nothing but trouble."

A pause. "Yes," she smiles, "girls are far less difficult." He follows her gaze to the object that hangs above their hearth: one fragment of a shattered shield.

**Earth and Sky** —Elena Tiriel

"Come, Gimli, we must fly!"

His anguished keening doesn't abate as I drag him from his prostration beside Balin's tomb and outside the dread-full carnage chamber. Can it be that this squat, sturdy stranger feels grief as keenly as we Elves?

I begin to comprehend -- the dead were not merely his people, the sons of Aulë, but his kinsfolk and friends, and his bereavement stabs my very heart. His axe is as black-drenched in orc blood as my long-knife, but his rock-solid heart bleeds blood as red as mine.

I pray the Valar spare my fellow warrior any more loss...

***  
The others followed; but Gimli had to be dragged away by Legolas: in spite of the peril he lingered by Balin's tomb with his head bowed.  
 _The Fellowship of the Ring_ , LoTR Book 2, Ch 5, _The Bridge of Khazad-dûm_

 

RubyGamgee: I request Samwise. If you can deliver him, I will be more than just glad. I will be a pleased person, a delighted daydreamer, a giddy girl and a very happy hobbit lover!

**Strange Bedfellows** —Dwimordene (triple drabble)  
"I don't know that I shall be able to sleep," Pippin had complained. "That cry froze my blood!"

Despite the fright of the afternoon, though, both he and Merry were fast asleep, along with an exhausted Frodo. Sam, however, stood amid the dull thickets, chewing on his lip as he pondered the back of their guide. He was glad the others were asleep, for he thought it would be better to say his piece in private. As private as it gets out here, he amended to himself, wondering how he should begin. At length, though, he shook off stillness and moved to join the Ranger. Strider's eyes cut to him an instant, but other than a spare nod, he gave no greeting. Sam sighed.

"Look, Mr. Strider," he said after a moment, "you've got to admit, it's a bit much to ask a fellow to think all's well after you've up and gone into the night after those Black Riders, when Mr. Frodo's hurt and all. Mind, I'm still not sure about you, but you've done right by us so far it seems and if we ever reach Rivendell, I'll be first to say 'thank you' and 'I'm sorry'. But we've a long ways still, I think."

Strider sat silently, but Sam thought he saw the corners of his mouth twitch. At length: "We have, indeed, a long road still, and while we're on it, best to keep your sword to hand."

"Right then," Sam replied, satisfied that they understood each other. As he turned away, though, to go and check Frodo once more, Strider spoke again:

"If fortune is with us, I should be glad to see the end of our road in Rivendell."

After a moment's consideration, Sam replied, softly but earnestly: "Bless me, but so would I!"

**The Garden of Samwise** —ErinRua

Life's a bit like gardening, you see. Everything starts from the beginning. First, a seed and soil, then a sprout, and you watch careful as anything so it grows right. But it don't always; sometimes birds or frost or other things destroy the sprout and you have to start over again.

But that's just it. You start over. There's always something to start from. There's always at least one seed. You plant it, and you go on. And if someone else can't, why, you plant for them. You tend their garden. Everyone needs a bit of garden for their own.

**Namesake** —Elana

Sam knelt by the bedside. Rosie, tired and glowing, smiled down at the red, wrinkled newborn nuzzling her breast.

"Are you sure?" she asked. "It’s what we always planned to name a boy, but that was before…"

Before a white sail disappeared into the sunset, never to return.

Could he bear to keep that name alive? To hear and say it dozens of times each day? How much easier to let it fade into dear, dim memory.

But what other name was there for his eldest son? He blinked back tears, but spoke with firm certainty. "His name is Frodo."

**Weeds** —paranoidangel

Sam carefully gathered up the daisies and buttercups, being sure to pull the weeds out by their roots before cutting the flowers off. The little vase had stood empty for long enough and once again there would be colour in the kitchen of Bag End.

When Sam had explained why they had to be dug out Mr Frodo had not understood. Eventually they had compromised and Sam had been allowed to tend the weeds as he wished, as long as he saved the flowers. Sam was glad he did for he agreed with Mr Frodo - they did look pretty.

 

ErinRua: I would be ever so pleased if someone would drabble - not to be entirely predictable - Eomer and/or Faramir. Both of them together would be very especially wonderful, as I find them an interesting pair of brothers-in-law. You know you want to. No slash, please.

 

**The Protocol of Princes** — Maya (maya_ar)

 

"The laws of Rohan", Éomer said loftily, "forbid the throwing of objects at the King. The penalties are severe." He closed his eyes and relaxed against the oak tree behind him with a sigh of lazy contentment. Then he opened one eye and squinted at his brother-by-marriage. "Unless of course, the objects thrown are such as the King specifically requests. A fruit from that bowl at your right would be permitted."

Faramir picked up and weighed an acorn thoughtfully in his and. "Tell me, O noble King, would this be accounted a fruit in the reckoning of Rohan?"

"Not if you plan to hurl it at me, no."

**The Twitch** —Blue Iris

The twitch! She makes him twitch! She turns away a moment and there it is! He cocks his head to the left and his right hand fiddles with his collar. She turns back and he is again a king among men.

I remember the twitch from his eighteenth year; when he was sent on a visit Minas Tirith. Boromir and I took it upon ourselves to lend him guidance on matters perhaps less than courtly. He twitched at first; meeting the learned ladies and having their attentions.

Now my little cousin speaks to him and it starts again? Methinks her long black hair unnerves him more than the black gates. For the most part he holds himself calm and steady, like soldier at inspection, all gravity of bearing. But the twitch! Let me leave before I laugh, and to my wife I shall grant right of jesting upon her brother.

**Lady in Waiting** —Lady Aranel (double drabble)

It was time. The wedding feast had ended merrily. The attendants departed, their laughter fading from the changing room.

Lothíriel trembled as she stepped over the threshold.

He lay before the hearth upon the rugs, the firelight caressing his golden hair and sun-burnt skin. Her eyes dipped to the curve of his hip where the blanket had slipped away. She was surprised to find an expanse of flesh not kissed by the elements, but it pleased her to know he still had territory she could claim for her own.

Fair of form indeed -- her husband.

"Come," he smiled at her, "be not afraid."

She knelt beside him, shivering: not from fear, but from desire.

"It will hurt a little," he caressed her cheek with a callused palm. "I wish it were not so."

She swallowed hard, tilting her chin. "I am made of strong stock," she replied.

His laughter broke in waves over her. "Think you that is why I married you?"

She turned away. "My lord, do not tease me. I-I do not know," she stammered.

With gentle fingers, he stroked her cheek, returning her gaze to his. "Then know this, Lothíriel of Dol Amroth.

I love you."

**Through River and Meadow** —Aliana

In landlocked Edoras I cannot escape that watery memory: the spectral boat, carrying its silent lament down the Anduin. Harder still, that vessel brought an emptiness that not even my betrothed fills completely. Alone outside, I watch the sea of grass ripple. An unexpected hand grips my shoulder—the tall young king I have scarcely met.

"Come." He, too, has brooded; he knows the sorrows of the earth, crimson stains on golden fields. "Keep company with us, friend."

A slow smile comes to me. Nothing and no-one can replace Boromir; still, I will not be bereft of brothers.

**Fireside Reflections** —Gwynnyd

A king sits deep in my armchair by the fire, glass of wine forgotten. He speaks of the exultation of the sword and he gleams golden and red in the flames’ light. He tells of far countries and strange peoples; the sorrow of those who fight and die and the joy when some twist of fate brings them as friends to his side.

"Do you never envy the camaraderie of the field when Elessar and I ride to war, Faramir?"

I touch the calluses on my fingers, from pen and not bow. Ithilien is green and whole. Gondor prospers.

"No."

 

**Faith and Duty** ~Nessime

His avowal of first-sight love for his brother-king moved all. Can I in faith match such devotion?

“Is it true, when first you met Elessar on Rohan’s plains, you came near challenging him?” I voice this challenge cautiously – a challenge first raised by another, one whose love we both own.

“Twas my duty to my king,” comes his reply. “And what of you, who would have proofs demanded of Elendil’s heir?”

Yet he bore witness, how this new-forged Steward had named his healer king – no proofs but what lay in the heart.

I answer, “Twas my duty to my king.”

 

Alawa: I’d love to have something Aragorn and Halbarad – or Aragorn and Denether – or something to feed my pyre and beacon obsession.

**Beyond the Door** —ErinRua

Evil things move in these darkening days. We feel them pressing near, those grim shades that fill the paths behind us. I know, however, my death lies not within this mountain, but beyond.

He comes now in his silent tread, my comfort and my doom, steadfast as the stones that swallow us. His warm hand settles on my shoulder, and his eyes are bright as stars.

"Fear no darkness, Halbarad."

"I shall fear nothing, lord, while you lead us."

For I have seen beyond Shadow to a noble white tree standing triumphant in bloom. For me, death holds no terrors.

 

**At The End Of The Tunnel** —fileg

It was not the door that kept men from entering the paths, but the wall. Ice, fear, darkness - they squeezed a mans heart at the thought of that first step, into the unknown.

But we were no ordinary men. Bone and blood formed in north, we understood these things, and knew they could be faced. If any man could hold up a light for them to follow, the men of the north would not falter.

Last of the old blood, we stared into the abyss, saw our truth, and held aloft our light - the flame of his beacon; my pyre.

**Battle of Wills** —fliewatuet

I can see your strength wane fast while I watch you staring into that fiery ball, hands clenched about Andúril's hilt. No blows are exchanged but a battle is raging, and there is nothing I can do, save stand by your side, hold your banner aloft and trust your strength and wisdom, like I have done so many times before.

Then it is over, the flame is gone and all I can do is offer a shoulder in support. Yet I know you prevailed and will tell me in due time what you learnt, like you have always done.

**Light from the Shadows** —Azalais

Shadowfax flies onward through the night: Pippin, roused from dozing, cries out as sudden flame races from peak to mountain-peak. Gandalf broods.

_The beacons! Light in the darkness: yet will the flames of war kindle hope, or despair? Gondor’s Steward calls for aid – but knows not yet that Gondor’s King shall answer…_

At Dunharrow, three watch the Kindler’s beacons flame white in the midnight sky. Aragorn is grim-faced. "We go to war by a dark road." Halbarad grasps his shoulder briefly:

"Yet light from the shadows shall spring."

Legolas nods.

"Hope burns bright even here, while you are with us."

**Dark Memory** —Forodwaith

The torch went out, and the thick warm darkness of Moria fell over them like a stifling blanket. Aragorn knew they could not build a fire while they rested, yet his spirit craved light.

"How far do you reckon we are from the Dimrill Gate?" His whisper floated on the hot air.

Halbarad's shrug was felt rather than seen. "The orcs know; I do not. Sleep now, and I shall take first watch."

Sliding down the wall, Aragorn shifted his leg by silent degrees until it grazed Halbarad's knee. Anchored by that mute proof of companionship, he drifted into sleep.

**Charity** —Dwimordene

They went to no tomb. Denethor, despising fate, had rejoiced. Halbarad would've cared little–what Ranger cares for his own flesh so? But men not yet corpses have their needs—the Grey Company laments as flames roar.

Mayhap fire's fitting, Aragorn, watching, thinks. Stewards serve all indifferently; therefore let the wind be as generous dispersing their ashes. The thought's not uncomforting, and comfort's needed: smoke rises still from Rath Dînen. But there's yet no king in Gondor—hard judgments can wait. Thus Aragorn will be as indifferent-generous as the funerary dust: unto death they served; let none look further today.

 

AfterEver: I've been feeling uncharacteristically romantic, and pondering the 'love at first sight' phenomenon in M-e. Happened to Thingol and Melian, Elrond and Celebrian, Aragorn and Arwen (well, first sight for him, more like the second for her), to name a few.

So, I'd humbly request drabbles depicting these beloved couples falling in love at first sight, if anyone is inclined.

**Ever After** —Lady Aranel

_Gone are they all_ , Legolas thought as he drank deeper from the cup. In Valinor, he was alone in his grief: lover of earth and mortal beings whose flame burnt bright and faded too quickly. The music played around the fire did naught to lift his spirit.

And then he heard her.

A voice both sweet and sad touched him. He lifted his eyes; her black hair flowed as she danced. Her form and song both spoke to him of sorrow, and yet also of life renewed. As he listened, his heart began to fill with something altogether different.

_Love._

**Gilraen** —paranoidangel

When he first saw her he knew at once he could never have her. Not only was she the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, she was also intelligent and caring. But she was young - too young.

It did not matter anyway for he could not remember how to speak. He wanted to approach but he could not think of a single good thing to say. If he told her his thoughts they would scare her away.

She must have seen him staring because she came over.

"My lord, Arathorn."

When she smiled he forgot how to breathe.

 

Sigil Galen: If anyone would take the time to write something featuring predominantly Eomer and Legolas, I'd just be PICKLED TINK! Failing that, something with Beleg (Cuthalion, that is) would be unutterably wonderful. Just the thought makes me happy.

**Partnership** —ErinRua

I watch with gentle envy panging my heart, for Men will never know such perfect union of horse and rider. Arod moves to no governance but the soft voice of an elf: their thoughts must whisper as one, I guess.

Ah, Legolas has spied my notice. He speaks while stroking Arod's mane.

"Have I thanked you, lord, for such a princely gift?"

 

I smile into his bright elven eyes. "Your thanks is spoken with ax and bow," I reply. "Arod's former master would be honored."

As I am honored to find such friends in these dark days of the sword.


	8. August 2004

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For each month, members whose birthdays fall in that month will specify a prompt/theme/question/idea that they would like to see drabbled in the ["HASA Birthday Cards Forum"](http://www.henneth-annun.net/members/welcome.cfm). Other members (anyone interested in any of the themes) will then try to write a drabble on those themes. Completed drabbles get uploaded here under the name of the member whose 'birthday card' it is. This story has all 2004 birthday drabbles.

Anglachel: Ang will be 40... Anything involving the number 4, given the above numbers.

Anything involving Denethor doing something unexpected. Anything involving a dragon, as that is my zodiac sign. If you can put them all together, I will stand in permanent awe of your talents.

**Companions** \- Cheryl

Laughter reaches my ears, so carefree facing what lies before us. A smile turns my mouth. I have not known beings such as them before and curiosity settles over me.

Frodo, Ringbearer. His strength will be tested. The weight of his burden already shows on his face.

Samwise, never far from Frodo. Loyalty is his strongest trait.

Pippin, happiness undampened by the Shadow. His joy reminds us all why we are fighting.

Merry, steadfast friend, a trait unexpected in one so young.

Four small _periannath_ sit before me, so similar but different too. Our Fellowship is better with their presence.

 

**News from the North** \- Arandil

“Father!” Denethor burst into the citadel, thrusting leaves of parchment at a frowning Steward. “Read the news the messenger has brought from Lake-Town!”

Ecthelion shuffled through the four pages of the message, skimming the words and mumbling quietly to himself. Suddenly he broke into a wide smile.

“This indeed is good news!” He handed the letter back to Denethor. “That old worm was interfering with our shipments of Dorwinion from the north.”

“Shall we have a celebration, then?” Denethor’s smile rivaled that of any young boy faced with the prospect of a party.

Ecthelion ruffled his son’s hair. “Most certainly.”

 

**Hide and Seek** \- Vistula

“Four…three…two…one…Ready or not, here I come!”

The child was breathless, searching every nook with eager eyes. He dashed hither and yon, skirting tables – peering under benches, leaving no stone unturned. Giggling he rounded the great chair, not once but twice.

As frustration turned childish glee to pouting tears, he spied it. A careless toe beneath the dragon tapestry. His quarry found at last.

“Found you!” he cried, pulling the drape aside.

Caught up in a father’s arms, he squealed in joy and planted kisses upon a well-loved face.

And Denethor smiled down upon his youngest son and said: “Well played Faramir.”

 

**A different kind of dragon** \- Tanaqui

For six and forty years he was alone. Then fate smiled kindly and brought companionship. Sweet times, yet joy was not diminished when two years gifted a third. Now comes a fourth to add to his delight.

“I will fight dragons for him,” his older son exclaims, recalling tales told while mother laboured and father waited anxiously. He waves the toy sword received for his last birthday – rarely out of his hand – in dangerous fashion.

Finduilas laughs merrily. Denethor frowns, and holds his younger son more tightly. _If only all the dragons we face could be despatched with a sword._

 

**"Four is Enough"** \- Marta

Fatty rested his hand on the brick of the tunnel and ducked his head, watching as they disappeared into the mist. Four pairs of feet plodding tiredly across grass still wet with dew. Soon to be gone forever.

Should he make it five, he wondered?

He could call out, tell them to wait for him. He could dash to the house, be back within the hour. He could share their road.

What held him back? Bogey-stories of dragons and goblins? No. His heart beat quickly, but not from fear.

Four was enough. He had his own path to tread.

 

**An Unexpected Gift** \- Marta

Gandalf walked around the old horse, examining her. Running his hand down one leg, he sighed as he felt the bump on her knee. So you have been ridden hard.

Taking a carrot from his pocket, he held it out invitingly. Her lips caressed Gandalf's palm; soon the carrot was devoured.

She is a poor beast indeed. But still... He saw that some fire still burned in her eyes. Her spirit thrived, if her body faltered. And he was not one to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Turning, he nodded at Denethor. "Thank you. 'Tis an unexpected gift, but welcome all the same."

 

**Chasing and Burg'ling** \- Marta

"...That's what started all the mischief," the Gaffer rambled on, hands on his hips, "... chasing Black Men up mountains, though what for he don't make clear...

Frodo grimaced and took a long pull on his tankard. Even after all his adventures, that tongue still withered his ears.

"...Just like your uncle, burg'ling dragons..."

Burgling... burgling dragons?

Frodo wiped away snorted ale. But those words held truth. Bilbo had burgled dragons. A regular there-and-back-again adventure. And now... now Bilbo was safe. Free.

"... and ruined my taters!"

Frodo smiled at his neighbour, chuckling. "I shall do my best to make amends."

 

**A Long Tradition of Ancient Lore** \- Elena Tiriel

"Your tutor reports that you dislike History, my son. Why?"

Faramir flushed. "It is dull!" He recited in a sing-song voice:  
"2002: Minas Ithil falls,  
2043: Eärnur..."

"True, but what happened in 2040?"

A puzzled frown.

"That is when Fram of the Éothéod slew Scatha the Worm."

"A dragon?" Faramir gasped. "He slew a _dragon_? How? Where? Who was he? What does Éothéod mean? Why call it a worm?"

"You will find your answers in this book about our valiant allies, the Rohirrim..." He stood to leave. "But, since you despise history..."

"May I read it, Father? _Please_?"

Denethor smiled.

***  
We in the house of Denethor know much ancient lore by long tradition...  
 _The Two Towers_ , LoTR Book 4, Ch 4, _Of Herbs and Stewed Rabbit_

 

**Secret Fire** \- Alawa

There were to be fireworks! And this wizard knew their secrets! Though Denethor did not imagine he would share his tricks with him.

"So, what will it be?" his grandfather's guest enquired. "Tall ships? Seven stars? Or perhaps … a dragon?"

Now that was tempting! Yet dragons hoarded their gold and this was mettarë after all. Moreover, four-year-old eyes glimpsed a deeper magic about Mithrandir; something that somehow … sparked. So when he remembered the dead branches and sad fountain, his choice was made.

"The White Tree in bloom," he declared.

Mithrandir smiled. "Yes, I think that might be arranged," he said.

 

Elvenesse: I'd love a drabble about the ending of the world. Or if that's not inspiring, I'd like a coming of age drabble, since I'll finally be able to legally read the stuff I've been reading for the last four or five years.

**Again** \- Arandil

It started with music and thus it shall end. Trumpets sound. Darkness falls. A weary world whispers its last. In the nothingness a single voice breathes new life. Slowly others join, weaving their own strength and beauty into the song. They sing of the world that was and the world that shall be, creating and destroying at once.

Good does not exist without evil; nor pleasure without pain. There can not be one without the other. Those who have experienced long life shall now know death. And those who have known death; theirs is eternal life.

Ending and beginning are one.

 

**Destiny** \- Vistula

“Come ion-nìn, we have much to discuss.”

“My Lord?”

“Today you are twenty, Estel; a time for coming of age among men. Today the telling of your story will change the course of your future.”

At length Elrond spoke of heritage and duty, the details slow, unrushed. Then gifted with the trappings of his destiny, the young man was left for a time to ponder - alone.

Girding on a new name and the shards of a broken sword, he surrendered hope with a look of grim determination.

It wasn’t the end of the world, but it certainly seemed like it.

**Destiny** \- Cheryl

Imladris’ pure air fills his senses. All the same, yet everything changed in a mere hour. _Isildur’s Heir… Chieftain of the Dunedain…._ His hand settles on the hilt of the broken sword. His destiny lies before him like the many endless roads he walked. He need only step upon it to embrace his fate.

_Arnor… the old kingdom. His kingdom._ He must know this land of his ancestors…his people.

“You are going?” A quiet voice turns his head.

“I must find my destiny, _Adar._ It is not here.”

A warm hand settles on his shoulder. _“Namarie, ion nin._ Journey well.”

 

powzie: My keyword is "Ranger." I would also love anyone from my triad: Hama, Hirgon or Halbarad (or any of the other heroes from the long list of those who had an unlucky "H" name.)

**Hope** \- Vistula

He sings, and the stars weep for his story of destiny unavoidable – the fate of a future king.

No king he seems now, this Ranger, clothed in a life spent in the wild. No pillow comforts his uncrowned head; no fine linens wrap his road-worn body. Yet he is content.

He wears the weight of his age and the ages of those who have come before him etched upon his troubled brow.

Cousin Bilbo told me his childhood name was “Hope.”

How fitting, for out of this ring of consuming darkness, he has given hope to me.

 

 

**Life On A Level** —Dwimordene

As a child, Háma had climbed upon the roof to lie watching the stars. And as a young man sweaty from sword lessons, he'd pour the water over his head for relief, and stand there, head thrown back. How very like a dome the sky always seemed then, and he centered beneath its height, with all the rest falling splendid about him.

But before the dawn call, Háma looks out, not up. He sees no dome: the center holds no more, for the world is not for one boy unfolded, but he's for the world, as men cry: _Forth, Éorlingas!_

*****  
Bowl/horizon concept borrowed from Eric O. Springsted, "Will and Order: The Moral Self in Augustine's De Libero Arbitrio"; _Augustinian Studies_ 29, 1998: p. 92

 

**Kindred** \- Alawa

_'Tis unseemly!_

Gilraen ignored their mutterings; her husband would understand. Arathorn might be Chieftain but he was a Ranger first and knew how to succour his own.

The little one slept, content for the first time in days. With rest, the healer thought, her cousin would recover; enough to feed the babe again. Until that time Gilraen had plenty and to spare.

She carried her guest over to the cradle. "Sorry, Halbarad," she whispered, "you'll have to share until another bed can be found."

Happily the latest Heir of Isildur cared little about his dignity and went on sleeping undisturbed.

**A Ranger's Life** \-- Forodwaith

The open sky your roof and the moon for night-candle. A grey cloak for bedding, shelter and concealment all alike.

For weeks you hear no voice other than the eternal wind scouring the dry grass on the hills. No eyes meet yours but the opaline glare of wolves just outside the ring of firelight. Rough wool, sodden leather, chilled steel are all that your fumbling, chilblained fingers touch.

Your reward? A sullen stare from a fat innkeeper as he grudgingly draws you a pint; respectable women pulling their skirts and children aside as you pass them in the muddy lanes.

 

Eruwestial: I'd love anything with Legolas and Gimli. Slash preferred, but friendship is fine. THANKS so much!

**Much to Learn** \- Arandil

“Behold the magnificence!”

I see the Elf arch his eyebrow, a look of disdain crossing his face. “Master Dwarf,” he says, “I see closed-in space; dark, cold and devoid of life. Where do you look, my friend, that you see magnificence?”

I reach up, taking his shoulder in my hand, smiling at the fact that such a far-sighted individual can miss the beauty right in front of him. “Look again. I see rainbows of light sparkling around every corner.”

He looks at me and smiles. “We still have much to learn about each other.”

“Aye, my friend, that we do.”

 

**Sweet Comfort** \- Vistula

Thigh presses thigh as flaxen hair mingles with copper strands. The dwarf’s strong arm circles a slender waist, pulling them together – perhaps too closely, holding much tighter than the mount’s speed warrants. The warm and hardened hand’s absent touch is a rough caress.

The elf notices but he does not speak, does not lean away. The body’s press against his back has become a sweet comfort on their long journey. It is a reassuring presence, unbidden though welcome in the day – desired, but not pursued, under cloak of darkness.

Yet, as stars bloom overhead his heart whispers, ‘Yes, perhaps tonight.’

 

Uineniel: I'd love to see anything about Aragorn telling someone else a story. If that isn't inspiring, how about a character turning 13 (as I will too).

**Of Dwarves and Men** \- Arandil

“You did _what_?”

Aragorn chuckled at Arwen’s startled outburst. “I tossed him. He asked me to and I did.” He shook his head, thinking back to the moment in question, glad that he could now laugh about it despite the circumstances surrounding it. “He would not have made it otherwise.”

Arwen face remained neutral, but Aragorn could see her eyes dancing. “I’m sure his pride was injured, nonetheless.”

“It was. In fact, do you know what he said as I reached for him?” Aragorn’s eyes twinkled as Arwen shook her head. “‘Don’t tell the elf.’”

Arwen’s only response was laughter.

**Legacy** \- Vistula

“Ada, why are you sad?”

Aragorn turned to look at his son who stood before him tall and proud. He was a boy turning thirteen and well on his way to becoming a man.

“I was thinking, Eldarion,” he admitted, “of how swiftly the years pass. So much has already faded from memory. I wonder, when you are king, how much of what brought you to that end will already be forgotten.”

“But I will never forget your stories of Frodo and the Ring, Ada. I promise, they will live on through me.”

“I know.” And smiling, Aragorn nodded, appeased.

 

For powzie and Uineniel:

**Halbarad** \- paranoidangel

"Who was he?"

Aragorn and Eldarion had spent many nights going looking at the list of names of those who had died fighting in the Ring War. As they went Aragorn described the actions of each of them: why they were heroes and how they came to die. He was confident their stories would inspire Eldarion, although Aragorn hoped his son would never have to face a war as desperate as the one he himself had.

"What did he do?" Eldarion asked.

Aragorn looked to where he pointed and saw the name written. He told him, "He was my friend."

**Peace Talks** —annmarwalk

Elboron, handsome in his first Court dress, sat opposite the dark-eyed Haradric princess. The shy thirteen-year-olds had apparently discovered some means of communicating, for now they were laughing, eyes flashing, hands gesturing.

“May we be excused, Father? It is a clear night, and we wish to compare the names of the stars, and their stories.” Hand in hand, they slipped out into the garden.  
  
 _The stars, and their stories._ In years to come, their memories of a single starlit evening might build a bridge of story and song more powerful and enduring than any emissary’s words or gifts.

Kristi: I would like anything with Eowyn and Faramir in it. You name the time period, General or Mature audience.

**Consent** \- Arandil

“You are sure he will not be angry? I have seen the man in battle and do not wish to provoke him.”

Éowyn’s laughter dispelled some of Faramir’s apprehension. “Do not worry. He will be pleased.” She turned to smile at her brother as he approached, but he went straight for Faramir.

“Is it true that you mean to wed my sister?”

Seeing the steel in the other man’s eyes, Faramir could only nod. He was so startled when Éomer vigorously grasped his shoulder that he almost missed the slight smile that had appeared on Éomer’s face. “Then it would be fitting for me to call you brother.”

**Anticipation of Love** \- Vistula

Thrum… thrum… thrum…

Is it the sound of hoof beats or the crescendo of a heart beating in anticipation of love? Pacing the parapet, eyes scan the road, searching eagerly for a rider’s approach.

There it is – a flash, the glint of sun on harness.

Expectation starts the heart leaping, fire burning in the belly, passion flaring like the kiss of the late summer rays on a joyous face. Running feet skip every other step to reach the courtyard, racing the rider to the opening gate.

She leaps from the saddle into his arms, and in his soul, Faramir smiles.

 

**A good match** \- Tanaqui

“Are you quite sure about this?”

Éomer cast an uncertain glance across the room at the grave young man talking to the King of Gondor. Yet Éowyn’s face glowed with more happiness than he had seen in years. Too many years.

“Quite sure.” Éowyn patted his arm comfortingly. “It is a good match.”

“I know that.” Éomer frowned. “But will you be happy?”

His voice trailed off as a dark-haired young woman approached Steward and King. “Who is that?” he breathed.

Éowyn laughed. “The noblest lady in Gondor, and soon to be my cousin. Would you like an introduction?”

“Aye!”


	9. September 2004

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For each month, members whose birthdays fall in that month will specify a prompt/theme/question/idea that they would like to see drabbled in the ["HASA Birthday Cards Forum"](http://www.henneth-annun.net/members/welcome.cfm). Other members (anyone interested in any of the themes) will then try to write a drabble on those themes. Completed drabbles get uploaded here under the name of the member whose 'birthday card' it is. This story has all 2004 birthday drabbles.

Arandil: I love all things elven. I'd love a drabble about Thranduil and Legolas in a NICE father/son relationship. Or if you prefer elves of the non-Mirkwood kind, I also like Elladan or Elrohir. And if you want to go first age, I absolutely adore Feanor (don't ask). If Elves aren't your thing, my favorite man is Eomer. Just no slash please.

**Arwen’s Birth Day** –Jay of Lasgalen (also for Bilbo and Frodo)

"Will you pass me the wine, please El? Thank you."

Elladan passed the bottle of wine to his brother, who refilled both their glasses. Taking a sip, he lay back against the grass, gazing upwards at the night. Another burst of fireworks arched across the sky, fountains of gold and silver fire drifting silently downward.

Beside him, Elrohir raised his glass. "To our beautiful new sister," he said proudly. "I wonder if they did this when we were born?"

Elladan sat up, touching his glass against his twin’s. "One hundred and eleven years ago," he mused. He took a bite of the birth-day cake, baked in celebration. "To Arwen," he repeated.

**Honour** –Wild Iris

The knife's silver-shod hilt is old Dale-work, and after the custom of Men, it has two sockets to receive gems as trophies of victory. These there has been no opportunity to fill. But what of it, should the lords in Imladris observe it? Would they mistake this for the weapon of an untried youth? It has been well employed since the winter I girded it on him. We are Wood-elves, and our foes do not carry treasure. We are Grey-elves, and our house has never gone to war for jewels, nor will it ever. We learned that vanity long past.

**Even Elf Boys Will Be Boys** –Vistula the Dúnedain

Laughter trickled below the ledge. Legolas carefully gripped a filled water bladder in his small hands. A determined smile lit his bright face. On tiptoes with arms raised, he awaited his quarry, tongue pressed between his lips.

A moment away from mischief a strong hand circled his wrist. Glancing up he looked into stern eyes — a stern face.

Ada.

Silence flowed between them. The child swallowed with lower lip trembling.

Gently the Mirkwood King took the ersatz weapon from his son. Winking conspiratorially he pitched it toward its mark.

Ducking below the railing Thranduil chuckled.

"Hand me another one ion-nin."

**Many Stars** –Noldo

"Perhaps somewhere else, people have different legends for each star," said Elrohir pensively. "Just like we do."  
Elladan laughed lightly.  
"Even the Orcs?"  
"Why not?" asked Elrohir.  
"See that? That’s Urfak the Inebriated, that is. Nar!"  
Elladan snickered, a very un-lordly sound that would not have pleased his father.  
"How about that one?"  
"That, dear brother, is Lugdush the…Very Confused."  
"Very confused?" laughed Elladan. "What — "  
"It’s very simple, dear brother. You see, when he was but a young Orc…"  
And Elladan gazed at the stars, and for a swift, irrational moment, wondered what they were made of.  
Orcish souls?

**The Darkening–** Beruthiel

It cannot be!

Surely they lie, these foolish messengers; surely Melkor's foul darkness has addled their wits. Surely such scum as that lying thief could never harm an Elda so noble, as wise and strong as the great King Finwë!

But their eyes, the messengers' eyes; something in their eyes fills my heart with horror . . .

. . . No, no, Ilúvatar, no!

Their eyes say they speak the truth.

Why? Why did the Valar let the enemy Melkor loose? Why did they not stop him as he fled?

The Valar, curse them! Curse their summons from my father's side!

Melkor and his fellow Valar have stolen my most valued treasure. Even should my Silmarils be regained, and their light restored to me, my world shall lie forever in darkness.

For Finwë, my beloved father, is dead.

********

_"Then Fëanor ran from the Ring of Doom, and fled into the night; for his father was dearer to him than the Light of Valinor or the peerless works of his hands; and who among sons, of Elves or of Men, have held their fathers of greater worth?"_ \- Of the Flight of the Noldor, The Silmarillion

  
September 22 \- "Today is my one hundred and eleventh birthday!"

FOTR, "A Long-expected Party"

Yes indeed, it’s Frodo and Bilbo’s birthday on 22 September. We at Challenges have a very special gift for Frodo and Bilbo. We’d like all intrepid drabblers out there to try their hand at this:

Write a drabble featuring 3 of the following: a bottle of wine, a birthday cake, the number 111, fireworks and pipeweed. You have to make 111 words exactly.

**A Long Awaited Party** –Gwynnyd

Sam glumly inspected the Party Field behind Bag End. Everything was ready: sun shining, warmer than expected; canvas taut, and banners flying; squibs and crackers from Dale; fireworks; birthday cake. One-hundred-forty-four invitations accepted, but more would come. There was food and drink in plenty to serve them all.

"Speeches, " he groaned.

He heard a bottle of wine being poured behind him and a glass was thrust into his hand.

"Cheer up, Sam, at least there will be no surprises."

"I wouldn’t count on it, Master Merry, and I’d rather a mug o’ beer."

"What?" Pippin breezed up, livery gleaming. "Toast the King’s 111th birthday in beer? I should think not!"

**Not Just Any Celebration** –Vistula the Dúnedain

"Eleventy one bottles of wine on the wall, eleventy one bottles of wine…" Pippin crooned, lying on his back eyeing Gandalf’s wagon behind the tent.

"Pip, me lad, me thinks yer drunk!"

Merry stumbled, pitching forward, and narrowly missed the large birthday cake that someone had so thoughtlessly placed in his path. "Whoa! Where’d that come from?"

"And you think I’m drunk?" Pippin asked scowling. Searching his pockets and coming up empty he huffed, "Oh bother! Now where’s that pipeweed off to?"

"See, told you. You’re drunk as a Mirkwood elf."

"I am not."

Glowering at each other, suddenly common mischief flared in their eyes. In unison they turned, crying, "Fireworks!"

**A Vintage Year** –Branwyn

"A very good year, young Frodo, for babies and for wine," Bilbo said with a smile, as he reverently brushed the soft, grey dust from the bottle. The label had browned to the color of tobacco, the writing faded to a tracery of spiderwebs. "I remember that harvest. While they picked the grapes, the sky grew dark, and they feared a storm was coming. So the neighbors stayed to help the farmers bring them in."

Late into the night, the weary hobbits had cut the heavy clusters, gently setting them in baskets; beside the vines, torches sputtered and flared in the rising wind, sending a trail of fireworks into the sky.

**Natural History** –annmarwalk (also for Liz)

"Look, just there." Grandfather whispered. Barahir shifted slightly, rustling a dry leaf underfoot. A shimmer of emerald and gold, and the bird was gone.

Number 111. Bee-eater. Three days tramping the woods of Ithilien with his grandfather — what a treat! Grandfather knew the names of all the birds, and the flowers, and even the stars. He had given Barahir a small leather-bound journal, just like his own, to keep his notes and sketches and a list of all the birds he saw.

As the evening grew chill, Grandfather warmed some spiced wine, treating Barahir to a well-watered mugful. Nestled warmly together, they watched shooting stars streaming like fireworks across the sky.

  
**The Beginning of a Beautiful Friendship** –Elana

Such curious creatures. Newcomers to Bree since last my wanderings led here. Most like Men in appearance, yet shorter than Dwarves, beardless and Elven-eared.

This evening I was relaxing at the Prancing Pony, enjoying a bottle of wine, when a group of them took the table beside mine. They began to engage in the oddest practice — burning dried leaves and inhaling the smoke! Despite myself, the fire in my nature was fascinated, and I asked if I might partake. They were suspicious at first, but when my enjoyment of the experience became obvious, they welcomed me as one of their own.

Perhaps tomorrow I shall see how they like my fireworks.

**Gone but Not Forgotten** –Celandine Brandybuck

The old Hobbit pushed aside the plate scattered with birthday-cake crumbs and stirred his tea. He lifted the acorn-handled spoon from the cup, stared at it, and said, "Do you know, I had four dozen of these before I went on my adventure."

Frodo knew what Bilbo would say, but nevertheless asked obediently, "What happened to them?"

Bilbo set down the spoon and leaned back. "The Sackville-Bagginses, I think. Otho and Lobelia were so annoyed that I returned to Bag End." He grinned. "At least, my boy, it was only the teaspoons that went missing; losing one hundred and eleven bottles of Old Winyards would have been far harder to bear."

**A Long, Unexpected Drabble** –Elena Tiriel

"Self-indulgent twaddle," mutters the struggling amateur to herself, though she only uses words like "twaddle" when earnestly endeavoring to write top-notch Tolkien fan fiction.

"I love birthday cake!" she muses, "Wonder if chocolate cake with rum buttercream frosting is in canon?" She shakes her head. "But I never developed a taste for wine. And pipe-weed stinks!"

"Concentrate!" she admonishes herself. "Make it Tolkien-related! And canonical!"

Adding up word counts nervously -- must have exactly 111! Cut ten here, two there. Counting and re-counting, getting different totals each time... What a silly obsession!

"Fireworks! I almost forgot fireworks! How odd... I've always loved Gandalf's fireworks!"

"There!" she yells triumphantly. "Finished! One hundred and"

  
Liz:/Tanaqui: I would like drabbles set in Ithilien: any time from when it was first settled at the end of the second age through to the resettlement after the War of the Ring.

Or you could always just write a drabble about my favourite Captain of the Ithilien Rangers/Prince of Ithilien and his relationship with the place.

  
**Old Farmhouse** –Branwyn

The faint scent of flowering trees drifted over the ruined walls. "Almond or apple," Faramir thought drowzily; trees of the lineage of the rose, with their sweet, five-petaled flowers. Long ago, Ithilien was laid out in fields and orchards and well-tended woods, a chessboard with squares of brown and bright green. Apricots, apples and pears were sent to the markets of northern Gondor and south to Belfalas. He tried to imagine all those fruit trees in flower, acre after acre of shining, white branches. "How beautiful it must have been," he thought as he drifted to sleep in the farmhouse.

 

**Promises–** Gwynnyd

Dead and despoiled. Faramir made a deep ‘tchaa" of disgust and walked away from the downed tree that had shaded the hillside. The marauding orcs could not strew poison everywhere but they took delight in seeking out beautiful places to hack at the soil and sow their filth. Hungry despite the devastation, he pulled a peach from his pack. The heady scent promised sweet summers and full harvests as he slowly savored it. Licking the last of the juice from his fingers, he tucked the pit under a flap of uprooted turf and smoothed it back down before moving on.

**Garden** –Cheryl

With care the elf brushes earth around roots, his soft words encouraging the delicate flower to grow. Sitting back, he runs a light touch over its petals, remembering his recent words to Ithilien’s Prince. Green things will grow here again, Faramir, it shall be my gift to you and your Lady. These gardens will drive the memory of the Shadow away.

He reaches into his bag, gently pulling out another tender shoot. "Mae gala," he whispers, planting the flower.

He glances up, seeing the Prince approach. The man smiles, his eyes scanning the burgeoning landscape around him.

" _Hannon le_ , Legolas."

*******  
 _mae gala_ Literally "well grow" My hopefully correct Sindarin interpretation for "grow well"

**Faramir in Ithilien** –Forodwaith

Once this was the garden and glory of Gondor. Now the stones of the farmhouse are buried in long grass combed by wind on the hillside. If there are bones here, they lie quietly under years of leaf-mould.

The chill wind pushes the unbearably sweet smell of rotting fruit toward him. Fallen apples, riddled by squirrel and bird, lie rolled under the knotted shadows of ancient trees. In the valley below the silver-scaled stream flashes on its way to the Great River. Faramir twists one nearly unblemished apple from the bough and bites into it, juice dripping from his fingers.

**Welcoming the Lady** –Marta (double drabble)

Ducking through the waterfall, Éowyn let Faramir lead her the last few steps of the long path. Deft fingers loosened the knot in the blindfold. Secrecy was no longer strictly necessary, but she guessed Faramir had wanted to surprise her.

Slowly she spun round, taking in the cavern: once full, now populated with barrels of salted meat, wine, and other provisions, but not by men. They were alone.

As Éowyn turned to face the watery veil she sucked in her breath, the air whistling through her teeth. A song like that from a thousand harps rose from where the waterfall met the pool far below, and the setting sun glistened through the curtain, more brilliant than Meduseld's tapestries.

She felt Faramir's fingers entwine between her own. Reluctantly she turned from the waterfall and looked upon his face. Was that a smile on his solemn lips? 'Twould seem so!

He took a step forward, and she did not move back. He lifted his free hand and caressed her chin for a moment before slowly raising her lips to meet his own.

Aye, what a kiss! How could she have ever loved another, she wondered? But those days were gone.

Seconds that lasted an age passed, and yet the two lingered. Finally he pulled back. "Ithilien welcomes her lady," he said, "as do I."

**Cause for Celebration** –Arandil

"Come, Faramir, let us celebrate!"

Faramir’s reverie was broken by the Elf who suddenly appeared beside him. He looked once more at the forest, so transformed from merely a year ago.

"Yes, Legolas, for we have much reason to. A year’s hard work and the Garden of Gondor nearly restored to its former glory."

The Elf’s eyes twinkled and he smiled secretively as Eowyn approaced. "Faramir! There is something I must tell you."

Faramir did not notice the Elf’s departure, concerned as he was over Eowyn’s anxious manner. Her news quickly dispelled his worry. He would soon be a father!

**The Air of Ithilien** –Celandine Brandybuck

It is odd, I have always thought, that simply crossing a river should make so much difference. Yet whenever Éowyn and I return from visiting Minas Tirith, the first breeze from the eastern shoreline carries the scent of home with it. Ithilien — there is a fragrance there, hard to capture in words: a subtle blend of grass and flowers, wood and water, and just a hint of tang from the bitter air of Mordor over the mountains. I inhale it like a drowning man come ashore. Éowyn laughs at me, but admits that it breathes home to her as well.

**Promise** –Starlight

He had been a lad of fifteen when he first stepped on Ithilien’s soil as a soldier. His crisp shirt crackled as loud as the leaves under his feet, but it blended so well with the colors of the forest; the wind hummed softly, speaking to him. Its beauty was of a peaceful, simple sort, quiet yet compelling. What wouldn’t he give to keep it so, to preserve even that small hope? Young though he was, he vowed to protect it with all his might. Someday, Ithilien would bloom again.

Today, 22 years later, his promise is at last fulfilled.

**Ambush in Ithilien–** Elena Tiriel

We stand alert, tense, hidden in shadows above the deep-cloven road-cutting, awaiting my bird-call.

On this very road in ancient days, the last living heir of the newly-slain King fell to in-swarming Wainriders, stirred up by Sauron. Kingless, Gondor staggered, but did not fall.

Now 'tis accursed Southrons, red-clad and red-bannered, who march toward the Black Gate, seeking to swell the ranks of those sworn to Sauron. Silently, we watch the sanguine horde crowd heedlessly into the narrow. Unwary. Never to depart alive.

Our longbows creak under the strain. Once again will crimson slaughter befoul our beloved Ithilien.

I whistle.

****  
In 1944 III, during the disastrous Battle against the Wainriders at the Morannon, King Ondoher of Gondor and both his sons Artamir and Faramir (who had been ordered to stay as regent in Minas Tirith, but sneaked away to join the battle in disguise) were slain. His sister-son (and last blood heir) Minohtar led the rearguard defense of the retreating army on the North Road of Ithilien; he was also slain. The spot where Faramir ambushed the Haradrim in 3019 was farther south along the same road.

**Land of the Moon** –nrinknrink

For a long while, he watched the leaves fall; red and gold they were, glistening in the rain. He caught them in his cupped hands, then let them drift away on the dark swirls of the Forbidden Pool. Here, he had watched their windy dance; here he had listened to the roaring of the waters, first as a Captain of Rangers, now as Steward and Prince.

Sometimes, he listened still for the comings and goings of men, the murmur of voices, footfalls lighter than a leaf. But only the water spoke to him, for the men had gone long ago.

  
**Reunion–** Vistula the Dúnedain

"‘Tis a fine garden, Prince Faramir, no mistaking that."

"I hope, Master Samwise, that you find this visit to Ithilien more pleasant than your first."

The hobbit gazed thoughtfully at his host, sharing a bittersweet memory. "Aye, ‘tis that. Would that I could repay your hospitality in kind. My garden ‘taint so big but I do say it’s fair to look at."

"If it is half as fine as these flowers you bring to gladden my house," Faramir gestured to where Rose and Elanor laughed with Eowyn nearby, "then I imagine it is beautiful. Shall we join them?"

"Aye."

**Ithilien** –powzie (double drabble)

Anduin, mother of waters, carries within her all of our world. Snow melt from the roof of the world has gathered to her heart the heart of all the lands she washes as she journeys South. She flows broad and bright by the time she reaches the Garden of Gondor. Ithilien greets her at the border of Anorien with moonflowers, craving her blessing.

Next the banks bloom in variegated thyme, symbol of courage and persistence; then lemon balm and peppermint spread the scent of healing as they run rioting over the paths. Meadowsweet twines the fragrance of happiness where clover and chamomile promise the redemption of love. Sweet grass , whose scent clears the mind, joins wild dianthus to open the heart.

For awhile Anduin goes more slowly, hiding in the reeds, before surging forward again as she catches the scent of the sea and runs onward to meet the sun. But before she leaves the lands of the moon, fennel and yarrow will add to her song — protection, sweet mother, for all the lands within reach of your cold, swift flowing tears.

I kneel and drink deeply of the waters of the moon. Then, rising to go, I drop the green sprig I have been holding in my right hand into the dancing gleam.

Rosemary — that’s for remembrance.


	10. October 2004

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For each month, members whose birthdays fall in that month will specify a prompt/theme/question/idea that they would like to see drabbled in the ["HASA Birthday Cards Forum"](http://www.henneth-annun.net/members/welcome.cfm). Other members (anyone interested in any of the themes) will then try to write a drabble on those themes. Completed drabbles get uploaded here under the name of the member whose 'birthday card' it is. This story has all 2004 birthday drabbles.

MadGamgee: I'd like to see a moment between Eowyn and Pippin. They're my favorite characters, and undoubtedly they met, both being so close to Merry and Faramir, but Tolkien never tells us about that.

**Wondering about the White Lady** – by Tanaqui

“Keep Lady Éowyn company for me while I am gone.” Faramir’s words ring in my ears as he departs at the summons I brought from the King. Bees hum loudly among the herbs as we look at each other uncertainly.

Merry told me of her grief and despair, kindness, valour, how pity for her awoke his courage.

Faramir’s stern face softens when he speaks of her; left unsaid that this new love gives hope amidst grief for those who are gone.

_Who is she that she can capture their hearts so?_

“Lady Éowyn,” I bow as I make our beginning.

 

**Sharing** ~ by Vistula

“Let’s see, cheese, some bread…” Eowyn paused in her storeroom rummaging, at the patter of bare feet.

“M’lady Eowyn?”

It was one of the holbytla. Not a ring-bearer, he wore the livery of a Citadel guard.

“You must be Pippin,” she whispered. “Merry often spoke of you.”

The hobbit nodded, smiling. “I came to snitch a bite since the coronation feast isn’t for some hours yet.”

“Me too. I've attended many formal dinners and there’s never enough to eat or drink.”

“Shall we sup together then? I’d like to hear about Merry and your adventures.”

“Let’s. Here carry the wine.”

 

Faramir_Boromir: I would appreciate any words about Boromir

As a new soldier, as a trainee, as a son, as a commander, as a brother, as a figure of affection to his men, in Osgiliath, in Minas Tirith, travelling to Rivendell, fighting in Moria.... I'd just as soon not have death fic, ...something about the man when he is alive would please me best.

**Brotherly love** – by Tanaqui

He was so strong!

I remember his small, blunt hand slipped from mine, he tugged so hard. I gave chase, but he was through the door and crying, “Let me see! Let me see!” before we could make a more seemly entrance.  
  
Still, the Lord Denethor was in a rare good mood and did not reprimand me.

Always a restless blur of rich velvets and dark hair, I remember. But that moment he was still. I watched my sweet boy lean over the crib and will not forget his words.

“I will always take good care of you, little brother.”

 

**Little Ones** ~ by Vistula

He hears them - teeth chattering in the darkness.

_They’re cold, afraid. The creature in the water has shaken them, more than their stout hearts want to admit._

Enveloped in the creeping black of Moria, they shiver with more than cold. Horror curls about them like the musty air. Too proud to admit it, they huddle together finding little comfort in their mutual terror.

_Strength can only be gained from strength._

“Merry. Pippin. Come here.” He coaxes gently, offering them protection against the night.

Eagerly, they obey nestling like children against his sides. Wrapped by his courage they sleep in peace.

 

**Mag the Cook Remembers Boromir** ~ by annmarwalk

Oh, he had a sweet tooth, our young lord Boromir! Whenever he returned home to us, safe and whole, I’d fix his favorites: breakfast cakes drizzled with ginger glaze; milky tea sweetened with honey and cinnamon; crisp duckling roasted with oranges and dates. He’d laugh, and kiss me, and call me his dearest Mag. I’d shoo him away, but not before he’d grab a handful of sugared almonds, for later.

Now, every year on his birthday, my lord Faramir bakes ginger cakes, with his own hands, in memory. Not as good as mine, but Faramir tries his best, bless him.

 

Arquen: I'd love a drabble from the POV of someone (other than Tar-Miriel) during the destruction of Numenor. Either one of the Faithful on the ships, or someone watching the wave descend upon the island. Thanks!

**Triumph Incarnate** –Elena Tiriel

Armenelos the golden? Nay! By My hand, armenelos the blackened!

_I bade them burn the white tree. Reluctantly, they obeyed._  
The acrid smoke shrouds the nimbus-wracked sky, split asunder by lightning.

_I bade them betray their kindred, despoil, violate, sacrifice; willingly, they complied._  
The foolish faithful shriek and wail... the charred charnel-stench arouses My passion.

_I bade them breach the ban of the valar and, pridefully, their king voyaged westward._  
The menacing wavecrest looms. My goal's at hand: to purge these paltry vermin who sought to subjugate Me!

Satisfied, I mount the ebon throne in My impenetrable Temple.

And laugh.

***  
And Sauron, sitting in his black seat in the midst of the Temple, had laughed when he heard the trumpets of Ar-Pharazôn sounding for battle; and again he had laughed when he heard the thunder of the storm; and a third time, even as he laughed at his own thought, thinking what he would do now in the world, being rid of the Edain for ever, he was taken in the midst of his mirth, and his seat and his temple fell into the abyss. But Sauron was not of mortal flesh, and though he was robbed now of that shape in which he had wrought so great an evil ... yet his spirit arose out of the deep and passed as a shadow and a black wind over the sea, and came back to Middle-earth....  
 _The Silmarillion_ , _Akallabêth_

**What can be saved** – by Tanaqui

The ship’s master shouts to the crew above the noise of the storm, directing their struggle with tangled rope and broken spar. I cannot see the other ships: swept apart, who knows if we will meet again?

I do not look back. I know our sweet isle is gone, though I see the wave crashing over it even with open eyes. I think I will never forget.

Another lurch the other way. I hurry down to the cabin to check the crate is securely lashed. I touch one precious leaf: a token of what can be saved to begin again.

 

**Downfall** \-- a double drabble by Forodwaith

He thought that he could outrun the storm and return to the ships before the wave fell. The captain warned him - _We cannot wait for stragglers_ \- but how could he leave Lissuin behind? One last time, he had to try to persuade her.

And this time, he succeeded - even his wilful young wife was daunted. "Our pride has cost us," she admitted.

They foundered the horses trying to reach Andunié in time; for nothing. Now they huddle in the lee of the city wall. Water falls from the black sky, rises up from the black sea, blows sideways on the wind. From under her cloak she watches him. "I cost you a chance to live. I am sorry."

He is past sorrow, past anger. He feels only regret that the two of them will never see the shores of Middle-Earth. "We are still voyaging together," he tells her, and it is true. Together they will discover what - if anything - lies beyond the wave.

The roar is so loud it is past hearing - not a noise, but a blow. They do not look up, but cling to one another and hope not to be sundered.  


Branwyn: For my birthday, I ask for words about the weaving of banners, spiderwebs, or intrigues. Thanks!

*********  
 _crafting a web of words--  
cords of sinew, thread of silver_

_weaving a tissue of dreams--  
cloth of nettles, cloth of gold_

**A net of warring duties** – by Tanaqui

I am not blind. I see how you lay your traps.

One son you stole long years ago, with soft words. The other you could not corrupt, and fashioned your riddling dream to take him also. You set the halfling to spy on me; your anger was a sham for my men to report. You use me as your shield, even as you prepare the way for that Northern upstart. Always I mistrusted him; was I not right?

You would stand behind every throne: north, south and west.

The _palantír_ shows your treachery. I will be the tool of none.

 

**A Lesson in Mercy** ~ Vistula

“Don’t kill it Da!” The child’s cry begged mercy.

A fraction away from his dire deed Sam hesitated, stone in hand.

“Please.”

Elanor stared with watery blue eyes, first at her father, then at the object of his determination.

Dewdrops sparkled in the spider’s web, just like the wet kiss of tears on his daughter’s face. Sam’s aversion toward the creature warred with the tug of a child’s words in his heart.

Defeated, he smiled and took her tiny hand, leaving the spider for another day. How could he not?

Unknowingly she’d woven a web of healing in his heart.

 

**Skilled With A Needle** ~ by annmarwalk

Throughout that rainy winter Faramir watched, fascinated, as Eowyn wielded needle and thread as skillfully as ever she had handled her sword.

“I did not spend all my time in the practice-yards,” she laughed. “Come evening, my nurse would sit on me to make me take up my needlecraft. I fought long, but finally surrendered, and now am glad of the skill.” She held up her handiwork, a small jacket as exquisite and intricate as a spider’s web.

_A tapestry,_ Faramir thought. _Each day, some new knowledge; a new thread added. We weave our lives together, a work in progress._

 

 

Cheryl: I'd like to see some friendship drabbles between Aragorn and Legolas. Before,during or after the Ring War is fine. No slash please. Thank you!

**The King’s Summons** – by Tanaqui (a drabble and a half)

A twig cracks under my foot; doe and fawn bound away, startled. Lord Legolas turns, his face clouded with annoyance. I care not, now I have tracked him down at last (and I have long grown used to teasing that I will always be a city guard).

“Your pardon, Lord.” I salute him. “Lord Faramir sent me to find you. The King requests your presence most urgently.”

“Is aught wrong?” He sets off, and I struggle to keep pace.

“Naught that cannot be amended by a draught shared to wet the new prince’s head, if I understand the message aright,” I pant.

He stops abruptly. “The Queen is safely delivered? A son?” I nod, breathless. A smile lights his face. Then he lets out a most un-elven whoop and is off again. His cry drifts faintly back to me. “Ah, Aragorn, I will drink Minas Tirith dry with you today!”

**Bringing the sun** – by Tanaqui

The snow is cold but I sweat as I follow Boromir to forge a path. Head down, intent, I startle when Legolas passes with a wave of his hand, running swift and sure over the snow.

Breathing hard, we reach the bend at last. The snow rears high, sharp crested. Boromir says wearily, “We cannot pass.” My spirit fails.

Then Legolas appears above us. “Take heart, friends. I do not bring the sun, but tidings. The drift is little wider than a wall.”

Boromir and I turn back to our task, renewed.

_Legolas, my friend, you bring the sun indeed._

 

**Reluctant King** ~ Vistula

“Elessar, wait.”

Laughter like the fall of moon silvered water, stayed the man’s steps. Aragorn sighed, shaking back his elven cloak, and turned to face his pursuer.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Legolas questioned, his voice touched with mirth. He crouched easily on the garden wall, watching the attempted escape with amusement.

“Away. Anywhere but here.”

“You cannot elude your advisors so easily.”

“I can if _you_ don’t help them,” the fugitive king muttered.

“I suppose I _could_ grant you a few hours – for old times sake.” Heart filled with understanding, Legolas relented, throwing him a rope. “Come on…”

 

**Small Gifts** ~ by annmarwalk

Legolas and Aragorn had traveled far together, and shared much: hunger and pain; songs and stories; bittersweet memories of the past, wistful longings for the future.

_So if he chooses not to share this secret, then neither will I,_ thought Legolas. But when he spied a small flat stone, the ghostly image of an ancient fern-leaf embedded in the dark matrix, he knelt quickly and slipped it into his pack.

“Happy birthday, friend,” Aragorn’s eyes lit up, a sudden flash of boyish delight that warmed the heart. _A small token, dear Estel, in earnest of what is yours by right._

 

Raksha the Demon: I'd love a Faramir drabble - Faramir meeting Elves after the Ring War (or Legolas in the Houses of Healing), Faramir and Eomer, Faramir and Aragorn's relationship, Faramir as a fighter/warrior, Faramir as a musician and/or singer, a Faramir-Gimli conversation, Faramir's relationship with Gandalf, whichever y'all would prefer. I prefer non-slash.

**A warrior’s skills** – by Tanaqui

He moves among them, speaks to each group in turn. Orders for tomorrow’s battle were given to their leaders; still he shares a jest, asks after news from home, lays a calm hand on a young shoulder.

“Give us a song, Captain.” The words carry across the cavern. Men turn to look.

“It’s been a while….” He smiles, apologetic, ready to move on.

“Don’t tell us you’ve lost your voice!” someone else calls.

“A song, a song!” The quiet beat of hands on hilts.

How can he not grant their wish, that a warrior should have more skills than weaponcraft?

 

**Risk and Reward** – by Tanaqui

His fingers shake as he unwraps this glorious gift. He fears what he offers in return will not be sufficient.

Lips touch gold and cream and pink, glowing in the soft candlelight; his tongue savours her sweet taste as he breathes her in. His movements are slow, deliberate, careful, though his heart and breath are quickening. Her face is turned to him like a day’s eye to the sun; her touch on him assures him she returns his love.

Making her his, and he hers, at last, is like a homecoming to a place he has only known in dreams.

 

**Butterflies** ~ Vistula

“I can’t do this.”

Aragorn pressed his forehead with shaking hands, surrendering to his nerves.

Swallowing a smile, Faramir poured him wine. “You can, m’lord. You’ve faced far worse things. Orcs and…”

“This isn’t the same,” Aragorn interrupted, taking the goblet. He nodded gratefully to the steward. “I’ve never presided over a council.”

“They’re only men and all support you.”

Seeing this insurmountable warrior wracked with anxious butterflies filled Faramir with an admiration for his king that no battle feat could ever match.

With a comforting hand on Aragorn’s shoulder he reassured: “Don’t worry. I’ll be right by your side.”

 

**Family Traditions** ~ by annmarwalk

By the time the household was roused by his littlest sister’s cries of “Papa’s baking! Papa’s baking!” Faramir and Elboron had been at work for quite some time.

Two kinds of ginger: ground for the filling, candied for the glaze. He watched his father’s strong, callused hands kneading the dough, until… “Smooth as a baby’s bottom!” they sang out in unison, laughing, as always.

Then came the moment when Elboron asked his question, as he did each year, knowing now that it was part of the tradition. “What was my uncle Boromir like?” And his father began to tell him.


	11. November 2004

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For each month, members whose birthdays fall in that month will specify a prompt/theme/question/idea that they would like to see drabbled in the ["HASA Birthday Cards Forum"](http://www.henneth-annun.net/members/welcome.cfm). Other members (anyone interested in any of the themes) will then try to write a drabble on those themes. Completed drabbles get uploaded here under the name of the member whose 'birthday card' it is. This story has all 2004 birthday drabbles.

acacea: I'd love a drabble on an Aragorn Faramir conversation or a Faramir Gandalf post ring war conversation or a Faramir Eldarion conversation

**War Stories** — Tanaqui

“…And the Dead helped Father capture the fleet?”

Eldarion could not keep doubt from his voice. Because Lord Faramir’s tales about Father were just as exciting as the stories about dragons and magic jewels he heard from his nurse, he could never quite believe they were true.

When Faramir nodded, Eldarion asked suspiciously, “Did you see them? The Dead?”

The Steward hesitated for a long moment; Eldarion hopped impatiently from foot to foot.

“The Dead who aided your father? No. That was at Pelargir. I was here in the City.”

Eldarion was struck by a question he had not thought to ask before. “What did _you_ do? During the War.”

Again that hesitation, but before Lord Faramir spoke, another voice answered.

“Kept the City safe, until Lady Éowyn and I could bring help.”

Eldarion squealed, and turned to throw himself into his father’s arms. Held tight, he looked back at the Steward. “But Lord Faramir never goes to war with you and King Éomer. He always stays here.”

“Yes,” his father answered. “He keeps my City safe still. One day you will understand: it takes a different kind of courage to defend, even without hope, as the dark creeps on.”

**Kindred Spirits** ~ by annmarwalk

Through all his long years, Mithrandir had envied neither elf nor man, concentrating always on his task: the defeat of the Dark One.

Yet when the raven-haired boy gazed at him with such admiration, he could not help but wonder: what it would have been like to father such a child? To see him grow daily in grace and wisdom, to delight in his eager curiosity, to mold his learning to noble ends? Why was such joy granted to one who treasured it not?

He revered his King Elessar, but dear Faramir had always been the child of his heart.

**No Two Luckier Men** ~ Vistula

Swirling wisps of gold and sable float upon the crystal crispness of a pool no longer touched by war. Elven queen and lady warrior laugh together like maids, catching liquid silver in cupped hands. They splash and play like the children they will someday carry in blossoming bellies.

On the pool’s grassy bank, King and Steward lounge with adoring eyes, wondering aloud why they both should be so blessed.

“Could there be two luckier men in all of Middle Earth than we are, Faramir?”

Shaking his head with certainty, the young Steward breathes: “No my lord Elessar, I think not.”

 

annmarwalk: I'd love something about either or both of Denethor's magnificent sons.

**Sand-castles when the tide is flowing** — Tanaqui

Denethor leaves the never-ending business of state and hurries to admire the rival citadels ere the tide sweeps them away.

The many lofty turrets of Boromir’s city stand proudly in the open. Already the sea licks at the outer walls, undermining them.

Faramir’s castle is simpler: a single, shapely tower inside a plain, wide wall. _He is five years younger_ , Denethor chides himself, before he offers praise to both sons.

Walking on the beach next day, he finds no trace of Boromir’s castle. Yet, he sees with surprise, Faramir’s still stands: the wall is partly damaged, but the tower endures.

**Insight** \--Cheryl (compainion drabble to The Stewared and the King drabble for Aeneid, also a November birthday!)

Pride wells within me as I look at the men before me. Boromir and Aragorn, side by side, face the exuberant crowd.

I study my brother's face and see acceptance, loyalty. More than that: devotion even our father never inspired in him. Can I read his heart? Still, always, my brother, but he is different somehow.

_How many hundreds of years needs it to make a steward a king?_ Ever have I remembered his words, clear after so many years. Yet discontent I see not in my brother’s face. Perhaps, now, the years that have passed do not matter anymore.

 

 

**The Herbs of Ithilien** \- Aeneid

He creeps. Grass bending, roots shifting. Dirt. The small of his back aches with the crouched position he has been holding for hours. The sweat – trickling slowly down his brow – over every crease and line and scar – tainting the eyebrow and into the eye, salty, like a tear returning. He blinks. Peering through the branches. The Enemy stirs.

Movement to his left.

Mablung’s voice, tense: “Still, Captain. Still.”

He goes rigid. Every muscle taut. Waiting. Danger. The trained heart skips.

The dark-haired Ranger bends forward, right beside his boot. A knife slicing through something. And then Mablung straightens, smiles.

“Thyme.”

**Night Fears** ~ Vistula

The warrior tightens his arms around the small bodies that flank him. The halflings sleep at last, strengthened by his protective embrace.

Sighing, Boromir remembers another time, not so long ago, when the tearstained cheeks and wide eyes had belonged to another. He’d held this other little one, a boy trying so hard to be a man, while a violent summer storm bathed the tower with fury.

“I’m not afraid!” The boy buried his face as thunder shook the room.

“No, of course not.” His affectionate reply had held a hint of laughter.

_Brother, will I ever see you again?_

 

Aeneid: My drabble preferences, in order, would be something Haradrim or Fourth Age. I think that's vague enough to cause inspiration. And if not that, then a completely AU Boromir (Liiiive! Liiiive!) as a fall-back

**The Men of the South** —Dwimordene

" _Hradari_ to me!" cries lieutenant Fhelu'ut. Ahrit, clutching a spear, joins him. Defeat's in the air as Ahrit stares numbly at the White Tower rising over smoke and field, remembering.

Three months past, he stood awed beneath another tower, feeling his father's hands heavy upon his shoulders as Ahedri paid the salt tax in the only coin he had: "Here is Ahrit, my son, a man this day—one for Mordor, may he please the One."

Boyhood died in Mordor, and Gondor shall claim both man and manhood–he'll not see his fourteenth year, and he weeps as Gondor charges...

***  
 _And so in this place and that, by burned homestead or barn, upon hillock or mound, under wall or on field, still [the Haradrim] gathered and rallied and fought until ... all were slain save those who fled to die, or to drown in the red foam of the River._ – "The Battle of the Pelennor Fields", RoTK, 151

**The long march** — Tanaqui

We march proudly, our ranks disciplined, gear polished, banners flying bravely. The blood beats in my ears as I remember the tales: how they hewed the bodies of our fallen, slaughtered our women and children when they found them – and worse things, also.

Pounding out the weary miles, I hear the call of a strange bird. Next to me, my brother-in-arms stumbles and falls. For a moment, I do not understand. Then I see the brindle-feathered arrow. A rain of barbs follows, and we scatter to defend ourselves. Our great war beasts trumpet loud their defiance of these northern barbarians.

***  
“He wondered what the man's name was and where he came from; and if he was really evil of heart, or what lies or threats had led him on the long march from his home; and if he would not really rather have stayed there in peace” _Of Herbs And Stewed Rabbit_ Chapter 4, Book IV, LotR

 

**The Stranger in Our Village** ~ A quadrabble for Aeneid by annmarwalk

When the stranger came to our village we were afraid, until the old mother cat brought her kittens and stretched out in the shade by his side.

He sat cross-legged, head bowed, his back against the mud wall. His robes were woven of rough wool, ragged and dusty. His scarred hands stroked the cat’s head; her purring was like the thrumming of our hearts. For hours he sat, never moving or speaking, while we watched.

_Bring him some food,_ my mother finally whispered. _You are just a girl, he has nothing to fear from you._ So I brought a skin of water, cool from the well, and set a small basket of dates nearby.

When he saw the dates, he raised his head and smiled at me. The cowl fell back from his hair, and I saw that it was golden like the first full light of morning, but his eyes were green, like a serpent’s! In terror I ran back to my mother, hiding my face in her skirt. Surely he must be a demon, for what man looked like that? But my mother just laughed.

Each day, the women and children brought him food and water, while the men debated. _Thank you,_ he would murmur, in an accent strange to our ears, but never another word did he speak. Finally the elders sent runners to other villages: _What do you know of this stranger?_

Many stories came back to us: he was the true king of the fabled white city far to the north, exiled by a usurper, ensorcelled to forgetfulness. He was a prince of our own people, beloved of a goddess, hair burnished gold and eyes turned to emerald by the fervor of their lovemaking, driven mad by her vengeful spouse. He was a _Maiyar_ , one of the lost holy men from the West, come to carry away our sins, if we showed him compassion.

He stayed for four days. On the fifth, he stood up, smiled and bowed to the women and children nearby, and walked away from our village. We never saw him again.

What was the truth? How would I know? I was only a child, in a poor dusty village – what did kings or holy men matter to me? But I remember how when he smiled it was like a cool breeze from the north, and his eyes were full of peace.

**The Steward and the King** \--double drabble by Cheryl

His hand, strong and commanding, lies over mine. My grip tightens on the hilt of Anduril, the ceremonial words slipping easily from my lips.

When I pictured this scene as a boy, I expected to receive such words and not to give them. I understand clearly at last who stands before me and it strikes awe deep in my heart. Such a feeling is strange to me; I cannot keep it from my face as I finish my pledge.

His eyes meet mine; kindness, strength and nobility clear in his gaze, his words of acceptance so familiar.

“…valor with honour,” His eyes narrow as he finishes his statement, “oath-breaking with justice.”

He smiles at my surprise, his hand coming to rest on my shoulder.

“There is no vengeance, Boromir, son of Denethor.”

_" How many hundreds of years needs it to make a steward a king?"_ My prophetic, childhood words return to me. Gone is the unkempt Ranger from the North. Before me I see my King, returned at last.

Standing, he sheaths the sword before beckoning me to rise. Together we turn to face the people.

“Behold!”

His voice rings clear and true across the Citadel.

“Boromir! Steward of Gondor!”

**Southland** \-- a drabble  & a half by Forodwaith

Child of the temperate north, Arwen has never known heat like this - it strikes to the core of her bones, burns her flesh wherever it is bared. At this searing hour of the day, the sun hangs unmoving and the city of the Haradrim dozes. Sitting under the shadow of the arcade she watches the empty streets, where only flies stir. In the courtyard a bird echoes the liquid note of the fountain.

Beside her Aragorn sleeps on a divan draped with gauze. He has taken to Haradric ways again, and they call him by the name he bore long ago in these lands: Ekiri, the tall one. Looking down at the hair tousled on his pillow, she sees threads of silver woven into the black like the banner of his house. Gently she strokes her fingers through, separating them, and wishes she could so easily untangle the years.

 

annmarwalk and Aeneid:

**Not permitted** — Tanaqui

The steward waves his hand over the map. “We should meet them here, sire. If I lead six companies from this point, and King Éomer brings the cavalry from here, we can drive them on to the main body of our forces under your command.”

The Prince of Ithilien clears his throat. “Sire?”

“What is it, Faramir?” Aragorn frowns, trying to tie marks on paper to old memories.

“May I respectfully remind my king, and my brother, that the steward may not leave the realm?” Faramir grins wickedly at Boromir. “ _I_ will lead the six companies.”

“But–!“ Boromir splutters.

***  
“It was also Rómendacil I who established the office of Steward (Arandur "king's servant"), but he was chosen by the King as a man of high trust and wisdom, usually advanced in years since he was not permitted to go to war or to leave the realm. He was never a member of the Royal House. [Author's note.]”  
Note 53 to “Cirion and Eorl and the Friendship of Gondor and Rohan”, _Unfiinished Tales_

**A Wedding Toast** ~ Vistula

“You’re not suppose to be here. Men are _barred_ from the Shire, you know.”

Hidden from raucous party revelers, Pippin raised his ale mug in salute and clanked it against the one held across from him.

“What’s the King going to do? Dismiss his Captain of the Guard?” the hooded man mused with an infectious grin. “I’d have to arrest myself.”

The young hobbit chuckled and together they drained a pair of foaming tankards.

“Besides, I couldn’t miss sharing a toast with my dear friend and fellow soldier on the occasion of his wedding.”

“Well, Boromir, I’m glad you’re here!”

 

Ithildin: Hail, O talented ones! I would enjoy something with Elves – Legolas, Thranduil, Celeborn, Galadriel, Elrond, twins, etc., etc.- whichever muse speaks loudest. ;) (no slash, please)

**To Let Go** \- by Meril

Three days after Dol Guldur, he glimpsed her star-touched golden hair atop their _talan_. Clad in white, she sat there like a lost child, stroking powerless Nenya.

“It is gone,” she whispered faintly. “Lórien will fall to ruin. It will perish under the light of this dying world, memories fading to nothing.”

The proud golden head fell. With every moment he could hear the cry of her tattered _fëa_ , resisting the Sea’s call. In her eyes, heartache he could not heal.

Would he restrain her? Deny her serenity? No, he could not…

_Glenno annûn, hiril vain nín. Hiro hîdh._

***  
Glenno annûn, hiril vain nín. Hiro hîdh.  
Go west, my beautiful lady. May you find peace.

**A grandmother’s sacrifice** — Tanaqui

Arwen and I are baking _lembas_ when the messenger comes. I watch how she stills her movements at his name.

“It must be some years since you saw him,” I prompt.

She nods. “He was a mere boy.” Curiosity, not contempt, is in her tone.

Brought before me, I find him worn with travel and weary with long labour, yet he endures my gaze unflinching. I read his desire.

He is much like another Man I knew. My heart tells me his destiny will be as high - if he keeps hope.

I make my choice: that she make hers.

**Master of the House** ~ Vistula

_He’s Master here, I know that – make no mistake – and I should mind my place. I respect him, yet when he says go, take some rest, I cannot obey. My place is at_ my _master’s side. He couldn’t bid me different, were he King of all elves._

With stealthy steps that belied his clumsy nature, Sam slipped through the sickroom door. Mindful of the elves’ keen senses, he crept silently to the bed, reclaiming his post at Frodo’s side.

Sam didn’t notice Lord Elrond secreted in the shadowy corner nor see his knowing smile. _Fear not, Master Samwise, I understand._

 

Julia (jcd1013): I’d love a drabble that focuses on the interactions (friendships only please!) between the Fellowship--angsty or happy, with any combination of characters. I'm leaving it pretty general (I think?) and I hope that it inspires.

**The look of a hobbit's foot** — Tanaqui

He did not appear even when mess tents were set up. “Find him, my friends,” the king begged.

The healers had no report of him, so they took their grim search to the battlefield. Suddenly, the dwarf gave a cry. “Hai! A hobbit’s foot!”

They heaved away the troll’s carcass. “Aieee! Our long pursuit is proved vain at last.” Gimli bowed his head.

Legolas touched his hand to Pippin’s curls. “Nay, friend, he lives, if barely.” He gathered Pippin up. “Come, let us take him with all haste to the king. Here is one he will wish to heal himself.”

**Second Breakfast** ~ annmarwalk

One thing Boromir appreciated about Imladris was the food, abundant and varied. Arising late one morning, he followed the aroma of something extraordinary…

“Lingonberries! In a bread with pumpkin, of all things! What is that spice, do you think? Nutmeg? Or mace?” It was astounding how the smallest one could talk so much without breathing. “Those dwarves can eat, can’t they? And those men really tuck it away. We’d starve if not for second breakfast. Good thing none of them are around right now, more for us….”

They had the grace to blush, and happily share what little was left.

**Simple Comfort** ~ Vistula

“Tea, Mister Strider?”

I glance up as Sam offers the mug, his smile cautious.

“It’s weak, mind you, but hot. Just the thing to ease the night’s chill.”

I nod, accepting his kindness with a smile of my own. Sensitive to our needs, he seeks to warm spirits plagued by a cold the late winter weather couldn’t match. Knowing only simplicity, and having no words to abate the darkness, he soothes our melancholy with hot drink.

I watch him move on, filling each cup in turn, and understand that with his liquid offering he brings simple comfort to us all.

Melina: I'm easy -- any of the following would be lovely: Boromir and Faramir, either growing up or as young men; Eomer and Theodred, either growing up or as young men; anything in the 4th age with any of the following -- Aragorn, Arwen, Faramir, Eowyn, Eomer, Lothiriel.

**Fathers and sons, cousins and brothers** — Tanaqui

“ _Can I clean your harness? Groom your horse? Fetch your armour? Ride with you?_ He plagues me night and day.” Théodred glared into the fire. “Does the boy have nothing better to do?”

“No.” Théoden answered softly. “The one he should pester with such questions is gone. I would he were here for me to trouble with _my_ needs. His mother also.”

He waved away Théodred’s stammered apology.

“Besides,” Théoden smiled, “as king, you will have many loyal and adoring subjects. Best practice with this small one. Be as a father unto him for a little while, I beg you.”

**Courtship** ~ annmarwalk

King he might be, he was still a young man in a strange city. Stone walls closed in on him; and everywhere, too many people, too much noise. He hungered for a moment of quiet, and a breath of air; a blessed glimpse of green to remind him of his home.

He found these things at last, in rooftop garden, high above the city, tucked behind a carved archway. He found also a young woman, dark haired with eyes of grey, hoping to catch a whiff of salt air – the scent of her home.

Shy at first, they sat and talked. He told her of a great sea of grass, and the thunder of hoofbeats in his blood. She spoke of the thousand colors of the ocean in all its moods. _We are all children of the sea, she said, for do we not sleep in a bed of salt water in our mother’s womb, dreaming of this life?_ He wondered at that, but her voice was like music to him.

When they met again, that evening, he took her hand, and did not let go. She wondered at that, but after a while, she entwined her fingers with his.

**Challenge** Cheryl

“You will not succeed.”

Éomer squared his shoulders. He stopped and stared his cousin in the eye. “I will.” He turned away, but not before he saw Theódred shrug and shake his head.

Éomer easily climbed over the three rail fence before him. "You worry too much." He crossed the large paddock, halter in hand.

“I care not if you break your fool neck, only that it will be I who has to tell father of it.” Theódred rested his arms on the middle rail and looked over the fence. “You must first catch him.”

Éomer ignored him. He slowly approached the spirited gray stallion and, after a brief, silent stand off, haltered him. He smiled triumphantly. With the ease of one born to horses, he grabbed a handful of mane and vaulted to the animal’s back.

Powerful muscles bunched beneath him and Éomer turned his overconfident gaze to Theódred. He squeezed his legs firmly into the horse’s sides. “You were…”

He found himself lying on the ground, admiring the blue sky above him, and at a loss as to how he got there.  
  
A shadow crossed his sight, followed by the smiling face of Theódred. “I told you so.”

**The First Hunt** ~ Vistula

“They sound dangerous.” Arwen’s lips pursed with concern. “You’re sure he’ll be safe?”

“Don’t worry my love, Faramir’s boys are responsible. They’ll take care of Eldarion.”

“Estel…”

“He’ll be fine.” Aragorn soothed her worry with a touch. “Your brothers took _me_ at Eldarion’s age and I managed just fine.”

“My brothers? Oh, yes, that’s a comfort.” Arwen glanced anxiously out the window, as the boys gathered below, snares in hand. “You’re sure?”

“Yes, beloved. Boys have gone on snipe hunts for years and _I’ve_ never heard of any coming to harm.”

Facing the window, Arwen missed her husband’s amused smile.

 

Ranger1: Please any drabble on First or Second Age Elves. Have inspiration!

**Good welcome they found** — Tanaqui

I remember the old sea-captain’s final visit, bringing his grandson. Like a young sapling the boy was: tall, golden haired, sure. A little of our blood runs in his veins, and desire for the sea was strong in him. He was eager for knowledge, too. I taught him what I knew: of the making of ships and their management, the building of strong havens, the planting of trees.

Now refugees bring news of the loss of one Gift of Men, for their kin would deny the other. Perhaps I should not have shared my craft so eagerly with the boy.

**The End of the Siege** \- Aeneid

Orodruin rumbles. Gil-galad swallows back the filth of this place. A motion to the right – Thranduil, Amdír, Glorfindel, Elrond – the graceful, the agile – sweeping over them with his gaze. _Move the flank forward_ , he silently commands. A glance to his left – Elendil, Isildur, Anárion, Meneldil – the limping, the coarse – the men are aging. Gil-galad suddenly wonders if all the men shall die before this siege has ended, forcing the elves to fight on alone.

Movement. A drone. The lines shift as men fidget. The Enemy – hissing, cackling, howling – a war cry goes up.

And Gil-galad knows: _Today Sauron has come._


	12. December 2004

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For each month, members whose birthdays fall in that month will specify a prompt/theme/question/idea that they would like to see drabbled in the ["HASA Birthday Cards Forum"](http://www.henneth-annun.net/members/welcome.cfm). Other members (anyone interested in any of the themes) will then try to write a drabble on those themes. Completed drabbles get uploaded here under the name of the member whose 'birthday card' it is. This story has all 2004 birthday drabbles.

Azalais: I'd like Fellowship drabbles. By which I mean - any moments which show our beloved Nine together, in fellowship, basically. Active or contemplative, noisy or quiet, some or all of the Company, it's up to you - but I particularly like gap-fillers, which expand on the little moments JRRT didn't have time or space or inclination to go into detail about.

**I’m Hungry** ~ Vistula

“Sam?”

Pippin glanced around, skirting Legolas and Gimli, before falling into step beside the gardener.

“Aren’t _you_ hungry?”

Misery burned behind the tween’s eyes and Sam paused.

“Boromir gave me a biscuit earlier, and Frodo and Merry shared some berries but…breakfast was _so long_ ago.”

“You should ask Gandalf or Strider…”

“Oh no, I couldn’t do that. Strider would give me _that_ look of his and Gandalf would bristle his brows. They think I’m a bother.”

Feeling pity for Pippin’s plight, Sam softened. Winking he turned, calling for the ranger: “Mister Strider? Shouldn’t it be time for luncheon soon?”

**Renewed acquaintance** — Tanaqui

I sucked in my breath when he entered the council chamber. No longer a chubby infant in his nurse's arms: an imperfect copy of the doting face that once hung proudly over him looked uncertainly around the company.

I heard his father's voice, too, as he spoke of Gondor's valour, Gondor's needs. Well do I remember those wearisome debates. And, when Elrond named my title, it was his father's mistrust I saw in his eyes.

Many miles we travelled together, yet all too few. I would there had been more time to learn how he was not his father's son.

 

Bridiliel: I have an unnatural infatuation with Dwarves and Numenoreans. If you could be so kind as to write something about these two races- or anything you fancy- for my birthday, I would be most humbled.

**Butterfly Kisses** ~ Vistula

“Don’t move, Master Gimli!”

Awakened from his garden rest, the dwarf froze at Sam’s exclamation. Hand flexing, he gripped the ax lying beside him, prepared to face whatever foe might threaten.

Eyes closed he waited.

The hobbit whispered, “Be very still…”

He could feel hairs on his scalp rise in warning. _What fell creature dared breach this sanctuary, now that Mordor was vanquished?_ A creeping feel across his cheek and brow spurred him; growling he gained his feet, ax held at ready.

In a flurry and much to Sam’s dismay the gathered butterflies fled. “There now, you’ve frightened them off.”

**Faithful** — Tanaqui

Every morning I go first onto the balcony to look in the tub and marvel at the miracle of new life. All winter we have watched, fearful and hopeful, until the first green shoot showed. Yet my fears and hopes did not end then.

Today I see, wondering, that a bud has uncurled at last: a leaf, dark above and silver below.

“Well, and what are you looking at?” asks a familiar and long-missed voice.

I turn and find my brother sitting up in bed.

“I could eat two breakfasts,” he laughs, stretching and yawning.

“Have mine!” I offer joyfully.

***  
But Isildur came at last hardly back to Rómenna and delivered the fruit to the hands of Amandil, ere his strength failed him. Then the fruit was planted in secret, and it was blessed by Amandil; and a shoot arose from it and sprouted in the spring. But when its first leaf opened then Isildur, who had lain long and come near to death, arose and was troubled no more by his wounds.  
 _The Silmarillion_ , _Akallabêth_

**Among Friends** —Dwimordene (triple drabble)

"Do you think it's the water here?" Merry asked.

Boromir snorted. "More likely the wine!" he replied, and Pippin coughed, having sipped from his cup at just the wrong moment.

"If so, even Sam and I'll be fast friends, despite the blanket plot," he said. Sam rolled his eyes, cheeks reddening. Aragorn shook his head, but Rangerly reserve lost to mischievous impulse:

"Wagers on how long it will last?" he asked. "I give it a week."

"Three days," Frodo said unexpectedly, a gleam in his eye as he grinned at Aragorn, who raised a skeptical brow back at him. "My pipeweed stash is running low; I'll look forward to replenishing it."

"Wretched stuff," Boromir opined, but said, "I give it the night. And I look forward to air I can breathe about you lot!"

"And if you lose?" Merry demanded, deliberately puffing on his pipe, and laughing when Boromir gave an exaggerated grimace of disgust. "What then?"

"Then you'll have coin enough to buy a field of the noxious weed."

"Then I'm in," Pippin declared. "Five days."

But in the end, all wagers came to naught, for the days drifted by in Lórien, and neither Dwarf nor Elf seemed inclined to shove the other off a riverbank or a tree limb—seemed, indeed, to spend ever more time together.

"Who'd've imagined it?" Pippin said, incredulous one morn, watching as Gimli and Legolas escaped into the trees for the tenth day in a row.

And to the surprise of all, it was Sam who replied: "Well, I could've told you. It weren't the water nor the wine. It's in the air here—hear it all the time, them Elves singin' about him."

A silence settled on the Company. Then Aragorn chuckled. "Samwise, indeed!"

Thus did the spirit of Gandalf live on.

 

Elana: I'd like to see your favorite character being tempted by the Ring. If that happens to be a canonical temptation, wonderul. If it's wildly AU, all the better. I'm fascinated by how the Ring works, not on a person's worst motives, but their best, and would love to see how that would play out with some of Tolkien's characters from various times and places.

**From the Depths** —Dwimordene

The water is its second skin—a ripple in the pool a ripple in its being. A stirring of the bone-riddled mud, of memories of metal-cased flesh driven into open arms. A hungering... a hungering... for sweeter flesh, and something more...

_An end to hunger._ They would come, prey from all quarters, to cast themselves into the waters, and it would feed. For this hint of gold in the veins calls, whispering: _Come, and in the belly of the beast shall be plenty at last, at long last and forever..._

The Watcher glides unseen, and its arms stretch towards satiety...

**A Shieldmaiden, Tempted** \-- annmarwalk

When the Company arrives, she quickly arranges meals and beds.

Later, she joins them, listens, and thinks.

This device - could it not be used to restore her uncle’s health and strength? Then, they could ride to Gondor’s aid. She too would ride – is she not a shieldmaiden? Could she not be a marshal? Could she not –

How to get it? She eyes the hobbit speculatively.

He flushes, looks away; then looks back, speculatively.

Catching his glance, she gasps; then begins to think: _how to rearrange the beds…_

Something rouses Sam from his dozing; he wakes abruptly, looking for danger.

**The Taint of Guilt Lingering** ~ Vistula

Mister Frodo's sleepin' - exhausted - deathlike. You glitter there against his threadbare chest, taunting, your voice the slithering of a snake down my back.

_Sssssssamwise..._

I try to ignore you, digging nails into my palms until they bleed.

_Bag End. I'll give it to you for your own._

No! But my mind sees the gardens, the flowers. Hunger burns in my heart.

_Master of Bag End._

I touch you, lightest fingertips fondling while the vision caresses my mind.

In that moment of weakness, doom was sealed. For now, as his ship sails west, I can see you delivered what was promised.

**Wise enough** — Tanaqui

The armies of the Enemy flee before him; his father hails him as the saviour of Gondor, embracing him warmly in front of the people.

He moves among happy families celebrating harvest home: barns and byres filled with the bounty of the wide, well-tilled acres of Ithilien.

He kneels to give fealty, under a white-blossomed tree, while ambassadors from Harad and Rhûn, Khand and Dunland watch.

Only make a simple thrust or two with his sword….

_No!_

Would he save what he held most dear if nothing would grow fair or bear fruit or flower again without the Enemy’s taint?

 

Lariren-Shadow: Hi, my birthday is on the 15th. If possible, I would like a drabble about Faramir and Éowyn. Any time, I don't care. Thank you so much for anyone who takes this up!

**The Scents of the Place** ~~ annmarwalk

At work in her garden, fingers embedded in warm earth. Eowyn thinks, oddly, about smells.

Edoras: Grassland, horse, dog, peatsmoke. She had been so accustomed to those smells; but now, she wrinkles her nose a bit at the memory, laughing at herself.

Ithilien: new-cut hay, birch trees in bud, the lavender leaves she crushes between her fingers. Her husband: sweat, sunshine on bare skin; the herb-scented soap he loves. She smiles.

Footsteps, and here is Faramir, stretching out on the grass next to her. Reaching over, he nuzzles the back of her neck, murmuring, _I love the way you smell._

**Split Loyalties** ~ Vistula

The scream tore his heart as it pierced the silence. Only the hand on his shoulder stayed a hasty leap. Had it not been there, he’d have breached the door in two easy bounds.

Curses followed, and invectives against his parentage. Under it all pattered the ceaseless clucking of the women.

_Not long now._ He heard them soothe.

The noise of distress reached its final crescendo; then a thin wailing eased his troubled brow. Losing patience, he assaulted the sanctuary, evading both keeper and midwife.

“Well?” he demanded. “What news?”

“M’lord Faramir, it’s a son.”

“Yes, but how is _she_?”

**Happy ever after** — Tanaqui

“Tell me how the beautiful princess killed the wicked Witch-king,” Elboron begged.

“Very well,” his father laughed and settled his sleepy son against him. “Once there was a beautiful but sad maiden,” he began. He paused and looked up as a shadow fell across them.

“That old tale!” his wife said, sitting on the end of their son’s bed. “It is time I told you a new one.”

Elboron’s drooping eyes opened wide with surprise. Father was the one who told stories, not mother.

“Let me tell you about the handsome prince who defied the Witch-king and saved his land.…”

 

LKK: My birthday is December 17th. I would love to see a drabble about Legolas or the twins Elladan and Elrohir. Or one involving all three. Any time period is fine as are additional characters. No slash though, please. One last birthday wish, I would prefer a happy drabble, if possible.

**Young Elboron’s Tale (with Guest Appearances by Elladan and Elrohir)**  
~~ by annmarwalk

I hear that Legolas has visitors: tall and fair, elves! Our queen’s twin brothers, friends of the king, from his childhood! That is the gossip in our kitchens. I will go see for myself.

I can move quietly too, perhaps not as quietly as an elf, but I have been practicing, trying to learn rangerly ways. There could still be orcs about, and I must be ready to defend Gondor, like my uncle did.

There they are, under the beech tree – watching birds, perhaps? Are there not birds in Imladris? Where are their weapons? I should like to see their bright swords.

Damn that twig! They are looking right at me! Of course, they are elves – with their powers, they probably could hear me from the time I left home. Well then, no secrecy or surprise; best I speak straight out what is in my mind.

“Greetings, my lords. I am Elboron, son of Faramir, Steward of Gondor. Did you know my uncle Boromir? Can you tell me about him?”

They smile at each other – _another small boy, seeking tales_ \- and beckon me closer. “Sit, young ranger. We will tell you of a warrior we met, once, in Imladris….”

**Sea Longing** ~ Vistula

They sit together, sharing silence. Side by side. Elf and hobbit.

Tall, serene, the elf tilts his golden head as if listening to some distant song. Brooding eyes scan the water, committing each cresting wave to memory.

Small, pensive, the hobbit draws a hitching breath, swallowing the grief that drowns his heart. Aging arms clutch each other against a chill that comes from within.

Honeyed eyes glance up, meeting limpid pools. Inside each sees an echo of his own longing. Both are tormented by a yearning the years cannot erase.

“Be comforted Samwise. One day we will both go home.”

**Brotherly love** — Tanaqui

I pause, recognising trouble. I have learnt since I was last in Imladris that it can be found in the corridors of great houses as much as in mountains or woods or on borderlands.

Elrohir uncurls himself from a stone bench; Elladan pushes himself away from the pillar where he has been leaning.

“So, this is what our little sister has chosen,” Elrohir says to Elladan.

“Three thousand years and then _this_ ,” Elladan agrees. I cannot tell if the disgust in their voices is real or feigned.

Then they laugh. “She could not have chosen a better _Man_ ,” they chorus.

 

Ainu Laire: I personally would love to see some Aragorn drabbles. Humor, action, angst, and drama are my favorite genres, but anything will do, although slash is not preferred. Anytime, any place, whatever will do fine, but I am a fan of AU, fill-ins, and pre-quest tales. Thanks! :-)

**Vocation** —Dwimordene

'Tis midnight when a small figure joins him. "Is aught wrong, Pippin?" Aragorn asks.

"Can't sleep," he replies, unusually terse. Aragorn nods. He, too, has felt little desire for sleep since Weathertop. In silence they sit, watching the night. Then suddenly: "What you said in Bree—you've fought the Riders before?"

"Aye, once."

Pippin frowns up at him. "And you _still_ came with us?"

'Tis Aragorn's turn to frown, wondering how to explain himself to a hobbit. "Long ago, I vowed to serve [even unto this last.](http://www.forget-me.net/en/Gandhi/untothislast.txt) For a Ranger, it cannot be otherwise."

Silence. Then (sweet relief):

"Thank you."

**Bittersweet** ~ Vistula

He’d been dreaming – a warm pleasant dream of a more carefree time. A sweet dream of younger days, filled with simpler things, all under the gentle canopies that sheltered his home.

_Imladris._

She’d been there, stoking the fires of those dreams. Easing away his cares with her touch, the tender caresses filled with centuries of experience. To her years, he was just a boy and yet all man when wrapped in her slender arms.

_Arwen._

Awakening, he faced the cold light of a dawn without comfort, breathing away the ache of his heart with the smoke from his pipe.

_Aragorn._

**Not weaponless** — Tanaqui

Elrond placed the sword in the young man’s hands. “If you are to fight alongside my sons, you must have a weapon suited to your stature; and one of your own, not borrowed from the Armsmaster,” he explained.

Estel reverently drew the Elven-blade from its sheath. “It is beautiful,” he breathed. “Thank you, Lord Elrond.” He bowed low. “I shall carry no other while I have strength to fight.”

Elrohir stirred and made to speak, but Elladan put a warning hand on his arm. _Not yet. There will come a more fitting time for him to accept the greater charge._

 

Astara:Can I have something that has either Denethor, Finduilas, Boromir or Imrahil in it, please?

**Marriage Counseling** \-- annmarwalk

“So the marriage is successful, then?” Imrahil eyed Finduilas over the soft dark fuzz of his newborn nephew’s head.

“What is a successful marriage? Affection, and respect. He has his work, and I have mine, now. Did you think it would not be? Have I not been raised to know my duty?”

“Affection, respect, duty. What of joy? Passion? He seems a dull humorless man, but perhaps you see a side of him I do not…”

She laughed, soft music, and the babe stirred sleepily in his uncle’s arms. “I see many sides of him that you do not, brother.”

**Passion** \-- annmarwalk

The year’s end celebration: feasting and dancing and bonfires. At the Citadel there is candlelight; scent of cedar and fir and exotic spices; elegantly garbed and perfumed guests: the Lord Steward’s _mettarë_ ball.

As she turns, smiling, to welcome a shy guest; as he bends, thoughtfully, to greet an old ally: their eyes meet, and a spark, a nearly palpable burst of light and heat.

Ah, the unspoken words transmitted upon the power of that glance!

_Dear one, husband, how handsome you are tonight! I wish –_

_Would that this evening were over, my Finduilas, my love! My jewel. My precious._

**A mother’s duty** — Tanaqui

“What can I tell the Lady of Gondor that the Warden cannot better speak of?” Ioreth looked suspiciously at the tall, beautiful woman before her: intense, grey eyes in a white face.

“What has always been women’s business,” the lady answered sharply. “The bearing of children. They say you are the most skilled in birthing. And other things.”

Ioreth could not help preening. Despite her youth, her fame as a midwife had spread. Then she checked at the lady’s final words. “What would you have from me?” she asked coldly. There was knowledge she dare not share with the wife of the Steward, even if the lady pleaded.

It seemed the lady was as skilled as her husband in reading hearts. “Naught ill,” she laughed bitterly. “It is in my mind to bear many children for my lord. But they must be sons.” Her eyes were overbright. She turned away and her voice fell to no more than a murmur, so that Ioreth must lean forward to catch the words. “Gondor will have need of sons. My lord will have need of sons. Sons, to sacrifice in our defence.”

Pity stirred in Ioreth’s heart. “I will do what I can.”

 

**Serpent in the Nursery** ~ Vistula

"Should I check it for poison?"

I make the question a joke, and you laugh but your eyes do not appreciate the humor. Nervous, you nearly drop the plate.

You don't trust me, though I've given you no cause; somehow, I threaten your master where the others do not. When I'm near, you guard his side. Always, your eyes follow me, weighing my every move as though I were a serpent loose in the baby's nursery.

You're charged with his protection and as a warrior, I laud your caution.

Perhaps it wouldn't bother me so, if I weren't the only one.


End file.
